For this sacred Bible of nihilism—
the phone book—
swollen with disintegrating identities:
We thank you, Holy One.
What but this maddening scroll,
this litany of unsung Messiahs
showered in the spit
of pronounceable sound,
could finally break us?
What but this
hymnal of hairdo’s—
luxurious regions of unborn space
crucified by a joyless, generic font—
could wrest from our lips
that famous whisper:
Forgive minds,
for they know not what they do?
Spirit must have known—
like Julius Caesar—
there’s no way
to wash ones hands
of this
compelling martyr narrative.
And so, with fierce compassion,
Existence decreed:
All minds are henceforth
mothered by numbers—
orphaned by presence;
every iPhone, office,
and kitchen cubby,
a charnel ground
where chatty saviors endure—
with throbbing dignity—
their beloved
crown of thorns.
