Mimosas at Harold Camping's Family Radio Studios on May 21, 2011?

I thought bringing champagne to Harold Camping's Family Radio headquarters on Hegenberger Road in Oakland on the morning of the Rapture was an intriguing idea, and set up a private facebook invite for it months ago. However since then, after discussing it with other practicing members of the Mimosas Witnesses, we've sort of decided it was a bad idea for several reasons:

-Difficulty of getting people to Hegenberger Road for any reason.

-Possibility of offending or confronting people over there during a time full of expectations.

-Possibility of being cited for public drinking, or worse.

In regards to the first point, I was just reading relevant sections of the Gospel of Matthew, and Jesus makes the following warning about False Prophets: "Wherefore if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert; go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers; believe it not." -Matt. 24:26. Hegenberger Road is a barren trafficky street between the Oakland Coliseum and the Oakland Airport, and if any urban location qualifies as the wilderness, it does. Therefore I would recommend taking Jesus' advice and not letting a false prophet entice you to go to the desert. (This is a bit of a tangent, but the next verse, Matt. 24:27, describes the arrival of Jesus thusly: "For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be." What does Camping make of that bible verse, as he has said Judgment Day will be a slow moving earthquake which will move from East to West and hit every time zone at exactly 6pm? a bit slower than the speed of light.)

I've been invited to no fewer than three other rapture parties in the next 24 hours, but I still desired some sort of pilgrimage on Saturday to see the scene. Especially after I read SF Chronicle journalist Justin Berton's 2010 article about Harold Camping, "On Sept. 6, 1994, dozens of Camping's believers gathered inside Alameda's Veterans Memorial Building." (That was the last time he predicted Judgment Day on an exact date.) Not finding any evidence of a Camping-sponsored party myself, I e-mailed Berton asking if he knew of a gathering or if Camping was having a press conference somewhere some time, and to let me know if he heard anything. Berton wrote back and said that Camping had advised his followers to stay at home with their loved ones this time around.

That e-mail exchange continued for a few more e-mails, and I mentioned my idea of having mimosas in the parking lot of Camping's studios. I think I was fairly vague about actual plans, and told him our updated plan was to ring in Friday night (Tonight! when the giant earthquakes are supposed to first hit the Pacific Rim) in a cemetery, and attempt to call my friend Shani in Jerusalem, who agreed to go to the Mount of Olives for a live report. However, he mentioned it in front page article in the Chronicle yesterday, "May 21, 2011: Rapture or Party Time?"

Mocking and concern

A few nonbelievers have suggested throwing a party outside Family Radio's headquarters Saturday night, mimosas in hand. Other skeptics, however, say the fact that Camping has assembled a dedicated following is nothing to laugh at.

I think I can assume I inspired that paragraph. It leaves me in a bind tho, because I don't want to throw a party on Hegenberger Road, especially not Saturday night, and we intended no "Mocking" or "concern." More disconcertingly, the article's main objective is to create a false dichotomy between "Rapture" and "Party Time," and lumps us in with "a few nonbelievers."At least he got the key word "mimosas" right, otherwise "nonbelievers," "party," and "night" seem to be invented by the journalist. (I definitely said "pilgrimage" in my e-mail to him.) Anyway, I don't mean to parse words, it was otherwise a great article by Berton, and it was awesome he mentioned mimosas at Family Radio Studios.

I'm mostly composing this blog post and posting it on Rapture Eve in case anyone read that in the Chronicle & was wanting to know more. The Mimosas Witnesses are not organizing a gathering at the radio station, however we might still make a pilgrimage sometime. If anyone out there is inspired by the idea, and wants to go to Hegenberger Road of their own accord, please do, but at least consider my hesitations listed above. It might be fun to cause a scene there, anyway. But remember the Mimosas Witnesses is an inclusive religion of peace, and over all a religion of AM cocktails. If you'd like to know more about the Mimosas Witnesses, please read my pamphlet below.

False prophets with multi-million dollar budgets have the ability to do massive harm. Jesus said they come in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. In Harold Camping's case, he looks like crap. Many people are taking this seriously (as has been well reported this week in articles in the NY Times and NPR), selling off their life savings, &c. The U.S. has a high population who believe the Second Coming of Christ will occur in their lifetimes, and many are highly suggestible. Interestingly, I was looking through the Wikipedia's list of previous exact dates set for Judgment Day, and many of the previous Prophets of This-Or-That-Day were not wholly cast out by their followers. They include such luminaries as Swedenborg, William Miller (of the Adventists & also Baha'i,) Charles Taze Russell (of the Jehovah's Witnesses,) Joseph Smith Jr., Benjamine Creme, Sun Myung Moon, &c &c. So this could not be the end of Harold Camping, depending on how he spins the results of the events tomorrw. (It wasn't the end of him in 1994.) In any event, Camping suggests going about business as usual tomorrow, so please have mimosas with your loved ones somewhere.

Update: According to Scott James in today's New York Times / Bay Citizen, Family Radio Studios has been empty since Monday:

Inside the sprawling, threadbare Oakland headquarters of Family Radio Worldwide the staff has prepared for the end of the world this weekend — and it appears they mean it.

“There’s so little time left,” a smiling elderly woman said, hugging a colleague.

On Monday, the last day outsiders were welcome inside the gated compound, recording studios sat empty. Current programming for the independent Christian broadcast ministry was produced weeks ago. No more shows are needed.

Jesus Christ is a big fat man - The Manna Tease Special Single B-Side

And, as a B-Side to "It's a Snoopy Snoopy Poop Doggy Ratty Rat World," here's a spicy new homemade studio demo of "Jesus Christ is a big fat man." My mother pointed out that Jesus Christ was a skinny man, but I say, teach the controversy.

This recording includes the fourth verse that Minnie Mary Molly wrote, "Jesus Christ had his own cooking show, &c..." Here we go:

Yes, this song is also available FOR SALE, for $0.99, as well as "It's a Snoopy &c...," at this Manna Tease store here.

Won't you please "like" The Manna Tease on facebooks here?

The lyrics and chords to "Jesus Christ is a big fat man" can be found in this earlier post here, and we practiced it on youtube here. Thank you, come again!

Jesus Christ is a big fat man

Next, an original song called "Jesus Christ is a big fat man." We don't court controversy, but it is our cross to bear to be the carriers of truth-bearing crosses. And Necessity, that fickle goddess. Also, this song was inspired by the Fat, Happy Buddha, who is not the Bodhisattva but a future, fatter, happier Buddha. I thought, Christianity needs one of those:


Please "like" our hot new band The Manna Tease on the facebook fan page here. Artwork for the single "Jesus Christ is a big fat man" (not yet recorded) by Grainne Proinseas, and there's more in this photo album. T-shirts coming soon!?
Here are the lyrics & chords:

Jesus Christ is a big fat man

D f#min A
Jesus Christ was resurrected,
D f#min A
Died & came back, as was expected.
G A
When you rise from hell, you know what you want?
G emin A
You head straight for the first restaurant.

G bmin A f#min

Jesus Christ is a big fat man,

G bmin A f#min

He eats as much as he possibly can.

G bmin A f#min

Eats like he knows the world can’t last.

G emin A

You can follow him - he’s not going fast.

Jesus Christ walked into a bar
With a ninja & a rabbi & a Bollywood star.
A guy in the corner called them a bunch of fairies.
But Christ forgave him, & ordered a round of Bloody Marys.

Jesus Christ would feed the hungry,
But he also would feed his big rumbly belly.
He could feed the multitudes with loaves & fishes,
But he also knew dozens of other delicious dishes.

Additional verse by Minnie Molly Mary:

Jesus Christ got his own cooking show,
Where he would make his world famous cookie dough,
His speciality sauces, and complex fondues.
Challenge him to a cook-off, and you’re bound to lose.

© The Manna Tease 2011

UPDATE: Jesus Christ is a big fat man SPECIAL B-SIDE SINGLE now out:


And this song & more FOR SALE for a buck each at this store:

Happy 2011, song number 1: Plenary

The first of two New Years songs we've youtubed for you in celebration of New Year! Plenary, page 162 in the Sacred Harp, also known as "Hark From The Tomb", takes its melody from the Burns-ian folk song & lyrics from Isaac Watts.

Hark from the tomb a doleful sound;
My ears, attend the cry.
Ye living men, ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie,
Where you must shortly lie.
Ye living men, come view the ground
Where you must shortly lie.

Princes, this clay must be your bed
In spite of all your towers.
Ye tall, ye wise, ye tall, ye wise, a reverent head
Must lie as low as ours,
Must lie as low as ours.
Ye tall, ye wise, ye reverent head
Must lie as low as ours.

Great God, is this our certain doom,
Or are we yet secure?
Still walking down, still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepare no more,
And yet prepare no more.
Still walking downward to the tomb,
And yet prepare no more.

Christopher Hitchens: My so far uncancerous throat is not at all the only organ with which I've blasphemed.

I'm not a huge fan of Mr Hitchens (who has just announced he's dying of cancer), but sometimes he makes a well-phrased atheistical point, in this case a response to the accusation that his cancer was somehow linked to his non-religiosity:

Almost all men get cancer of the prostate if they live long enough: it’s an undignified thing but quite evenly distributed among saints and sinners, believers and unbelievers. If you maintain that god awards the appropriate cancers, you must also account for the numbers of infants who contract leukemia. Devout persons have died young and in pain. Bertrand Russell and Voltaire, by contrast, remained spry until the end, as many psychopathic criminals and tyrants have also done. These visitations, then, seem awfully random. While my so far uncancerous throat, let me rush to assure my Christian correspondent above, is not at all the only organ with which I have blasphemed …And even if my voice goes before I do, I shall continue to write polemics against religious delusions, at least until it’s hello darkness my old friend. In which case, why not cancer of the brain? As a terrified, half-aware imbecile, I might even scream for a priest at the close of business, though I hereby state while I am still lucid that the entity thus humiliating itself would not in fact be “me.” (Bear this in mind, in case of any later rumors or fabrications.)

I also liked his take on the Jefferson Bible (thanks to Chuck & Josh of the Stuff You Should Know Podcast for quoting this):

[...]The Jefferson Bible [...] was what he found was left if he took a pair of scissors and cut out everything in the Bible that could not by any intelligent person be believed. Makes for a slender, convenient read; I recommend it.

Ballad of the Three Old Black Men with White Asses

Three old black men were sitting in the corner pub

Watching racquetball on a huge television. I turned to my wife and questioned her,

"When did old black men start watching that game? not to mention their

"Hefeweisens & their strange manner

"Of singing along to 'Tiny Dancer?'"

She told me not to be racist, & all blood is ancient blood.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you ride into the sunset

On your albino donkeys. I'll forget your peccadilloes

If you'll forgive me what I've done to the rhythms in the easier Jazzes.

There's time for redheads to experience my prurience,

And time to fast & fence in your densest penance.

You have sinned against Warren Buffet's family, in ways you can't even know yet.

Three old black men were disembarking a U.F.O. wearing white hot pants,

I watched them from my home on a huge television, & turned to my wife & asked her,

If their menthol cigarettes make the shuttle go faster?

She told me there's no place for racists

In an age of face-lifts & space-ships,

And she reminded me that all grafted plants are fancy transplants.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you fly towards Uranus

Faster than light-speed on your albino space-donkeys. I'll forget your pecadilloes,

If you'll forgive the time I painted pink your daughter's pussy willows.

This planet is feeling a general malaise,

And in these times we turn to outerspace

To ignite our spirits--, you struggle, but you also have sinned in tiny ways most heinous.

Three old black men were hanging out in the gardens of Babylon--,

I am going home today in the narrow gospel way. Like an alternate life,

As they lay their harps down & lament upon demand, I comment to my wife,

"If their song would be so beautiful,

"If their lot were not so pitiful?"

She told me not to be racist, & all spawn is ancient spawn.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, & so are your designer boxers.

Let my tongue stick to roof of my mouth when I eat peanut butter sandwiches,

And I'll forget your pecadilloes if you let me scratch my last lost racist itches.

Gird up your loins & pull up your pants,

All grafted plants are fancy transplants.

You might as well disappear into the setting sun on your albino donkeys: we're at the mercies of God's reimbursers.

"He's not the Messiah! He's a very naughty boy!"

From the Huffington Post:

Raj Patel, the author of the recent book "The Value of Nothing," has experienced a bizarre incarnation of the "Colbert Bump" after appearing on "The Colbert Report" in January.

Patel has apparently been discovered by a religious group called "Share International" which awaits the second coming of Buddha in the form of a Messiah they call "Maitreya." The group's religious leader, Benjamin Creme, identified the Maitreya as having been born in 1972, traveled to London from India in 1977, being dark-skinned, and having a stutter. After Raj Patel came on "The Colbert Report," and was described in an article as having briefly stuttered, Creme officially declared that Patel was the group's Messiah.

Patel spoke with Stephen Colbert last night over the phone about his recent Messiah-hood. He called the whole idea "entirely bogus," especially considering his strongly-held belief that we shouldn't rely on religious leaders to make decisions for us, but to think for ourselves. In "The Value of Nothing," Patel urges people to think about the true costs of the things we purchase, and take concrete steps towards changing the world.

That cult was definitely unwise to make Stephen Colbert into their John the Baptist. As a side note, I accidentally wandered into a venue where Benjamin Creme was speaking a few years ago, and I found him to be one of the most boring cult leaders I can imagine. This whole situation eerily reminds me of Monty Python's The Life of Brian, including similarities between the advice that Brian gives after he's chosen & Raj Patel's message.

Brian: Look, you've got it all wrong. You don't need to follow me. You don't need to follow anybody! You've got to think for yourselves! You're all individuals!
The Crowd (in unision): Yes! We are all individuals!

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
I Can't Believe It's Not Buddha - Raj Patel
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care reform

And further similarities:

Brian: I'm not the Messiah! Will you please listen? I am not the Messiah, do you understand? Honestly!
Girl: Only the true Messiah denies His divinity.
Brian: What? Well, what sort of chance does that give me? All right! I am the Messiah!
Followers: He is! He is the Messiah!
Brian: Now, fuck off!
[silence]
Arthur: How shall we fuck off, O Lord?

Sacred Massacre

A voice is heard accompanied by pipes & drums--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Weeping & mourning in the corner pub--,

A dictum over the railways, a rider this way comes,

A failsafe second chance, wave your hand to air the fumes,

And all the little wishing fishes

Clear the table of their dirty dishes.

Meet me by the Salton Sea at high tide:

That's no way to talk about a mass infanticide.

Escape into the new moon, pipes & drums as a diversion--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Merrily, merrily, there's the rub--,

A smiling but cordial Persian orca, in this version

Is the agent of a wet holocaust, a sort of saltwater extermination.

And all the little wishing mammals

Pack up their kids like one-hump camels,

And drive towards the Salton Sea, be there by high tide:

That's the highway to avoid mass infanticide.

An insolent king will succeed the high priests--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

A jealous one-eyed incestuous hubbub--,

And mix his dictum in a cauldron with nightshade & wildebeest meats,

Certain right revolting fantasies, one of the damnedest amplest feasts.

But the blue veins on his mother's mammaries,

Will be a map towards the safe territories.

Rachel weeping for her children, & there is no place to hide:

The only way to react after a mass infanticide.

Did you hear the ululating? did you hear the drums & pipes--?

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Hide your corn liquor in the bathtub--,

Not just the Maccabean blood, but all the bloody stars & stripes,

From Malibu to mishmash, all different types of baby bottom wipes.

And all the little wishing ducklings,

Follow their leader like newly-weaned sucklings.

Did you hear me complaining by the seaside?

How dare you make bad jokes about a mass infanticide?

Escape into the water, Elle Mary, traveling so soon after nativity--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

And psalmody sung by an immortal cherub--,

That such a feud should be between a king & a baby,

All over a rattle, like Tweedle-Dum & Tweedle-Dee,

And like the little wishing pundits,

They nitpick pish-tosh like tats for tits.

The king will kill his own pig & eat it refried,

His own personal loss from his own mass infanticide.

A voice is heard in Tijuana, & with ancient pipes & drums--,

Tweedle, tweedle, dub-a-dub,

Carousing till 4am at a degenerate nightclub--,

None of these mothers have totaled their sums,

Unimpregnated, unbirthed, indifferent to the rider when he comes,

And all the fishes wishing to be born

Will have to wait till after massacre morn.

Down by the Salton Sea, a refugee sat down & cried,

That's no way to talk about a mass infanticide.

Shisha Poetry from the Archive: "I want to smoke with you Jesus Christ"

A short story I wrote in college, "The Arabian Bird; or, The Intrigue of the Arabian Bird", a sort of dense pretentious mystical private-eye mystery, had some 'additional poetry' written for it (around 2004). This was the final poem of the set, an idea I've returned to many times, about sharing a hookah with Jesus.

IX.
I want to smoke with you Jesus Christ.
I want to pass the proboscis of the nargileh
Between me & you & all the saints & martyrs,
(Especially the visionary teenage girls like Perpetua & Felicitas,
& also especially Ignatius because he’s so damned witty).
We would see the electricity of the campfire
Be orphically mysticized by our fumy exhalings,
But I wouldn’t care, because my savior would sit beside me,
A fat Havana dripping from his lips as he lectured softly:
I give to thee a purer smoke, sans briar,
Although that cigarillo’s also good,
For in it you shall find parts of my fire,
As even dormice bleed grains of my blood.

W.C. Fields once said:
Did I ever tell you about the time,
When we were hiking through the mountains of Lebanon,
& we couldn’t find a corkscrew,
So we had to survive on food & water.

Never on Sunday Song

Don't you know humongous jackalopes roamed Pangaea,
Yes, their fossils test our faith, my girlfriend, the restless feckless,
In her rich aunt's necklace, she looks like an old ornamented manataea,
Yes, & the jackalopes would have eaten that creature for breakfast.

Never on Sunday, she said, & wave your underpants in the wind
Like the Union Jack--, about my girlfriend I'll wind a lengthy vignette.
Winded from two too many hookah bowls last night, her voice sounds tinned
As she complains about the President, but the history's not in yet.

Time, gentlemen, please, to ask to shake a nation,
Long time, yes, & they missed the lost Zephyr train from Truckee to Sacramento,
Time to wait, eat a veggie burrito, & time for self-flagellation,
Yes, & if it comes, she'll be waiting by the tracks, now with several more babies to attend to.

Never on Sunday, I'm like a Remittance Man in a time of peace.
I'm a spy in the vestibule of my girlfriend's filthy caresses.
She left her locket unlocked in case you forgot your keys,
As a favor, rung-in & sung, every night when she undresses.

In the midst of a crooked & preverted nation,
Yes, even you, & my girlfriend, stand up, as lights of the world,
The restless feckless, she's what's left after nature's creation
Has been recalled, yes, & infidelity with angels, with all the right curves, & garlanded & laureled.

Never on Sunday, she said, sleeping like salvation never does,
The perfect day for mimosas & whores cloistered in pavilions,
My girlfriend is like a rainbow after the gay bar closes,
My girlfriend is like a lost lottery ticket worth millions.

Time, gentlemen, please, papers scattered from here to Samoa,
Curse the fin de siecle for its redundancy,
Repeat yourself & remember yourself & mispronounce tomatoa,
Yes, not once ask a nation for clemency, deeper than naivety but still not fancy.

Never on Sunday, I'm like a Remittance Man in the Pacific Theater,
After the terrific belligerents have gone home. Bear witness
Of that light, specific that light what shines on my girlfriend's dumpster-diving career,
Bear witness that this aperitif has undertones of mermaid foam--, but is otherwise hit or miss.

Don't you know the Colorado Locusts will return,
Yes, and then our farm subsidies will be dwarfed by my girlfriend's climax.
Lay up nearer, brother, ask nicely or she'll never learn,
Or about the humongous ancient mammals, yes, we're all vulnerable to mothership attacks.

Never on Sunday, she said, but who finds time to read the moon's latest runes?
Colonel Qaddafi can pitch his tent in my girlfriend's studio apartment,
Every enabler by his own standard, & Sunday Morning Cartoons,
Every conservative by his own camp, & never a camp misspent.

Time, gentlemen, please, finish your pints & find your graves,
My girlfriend, yes, her vocoder thru a groundhog tin-can hogphone,
Can't stomach another four years if the President misbehaves,
Yes, & echo back, in a tin room, like dating your own clone.

Never on Sunday, I'm like a Remittance Man up a Jackalope's colon,
But you will repeat me, you will remember me?
Never on Sunday, she said, well, what are we allowed to do for fun?
Manuia, gentleman-- remember me when the seagulls get seasick & declare victory.

Palinode to the Five Prayers

Those five prayer poems are a set, which together will form a short illuminated book called Five Prayers. We're working on that a bit today. There's also a palinode at the end:

Palinode to the Five Prayers

The sun has been set free,
Then the poor are fed with honey cream,
And I will no longer smoke my hubbly-bubbly solitarily,
Like a pocket of railway steam,
The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea.

Emanation Prayer

(this poem is called "Ejaculation Prayer" in the book Five Prayers)

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, & finally free,
No longer solitarily
Smoking on the Jolly Roger, pacing the fo'c's'le & surveying the expansive galaxy.
Together alone, with Henry Waxman as our sugary daddy,
Whale-riding carelessly,
Pale faces smiling gladly,
We're on a motherloving boat, sailing towards an infinite holiday.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, winner of hell's lotteries,
Which we spent all at once.
When he was an infant, his nurse thought his father wanted him signed up for infant pilates,
Now the sun's a pirate's apprentice, tennis on the poop deck, love letters in the furnace,
Victims of tasteless puns,
The seven seas' dreadful menace:
Now the sun's a dreadful awe-shocking uncircumcised terror, liberated as the houris.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, the new Jerusalem
Comes down wearily,
Norma Jean left behind in Damascus, like slaves in rhythm to the kettle-drum,
James Dean stoned to death by Thracians, & woship him that made the heavens, the earths, & the seas.
Not necessarily,
Stage seven, from births to disease,
The mansion is also a hospital & sanitarium, please pray we remembered our keys.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, boiling the five oceans,
Deforesting the coral,
What are you? a liquid dream, a cocktail, or one of Professor Snape's potions?
What are you? our human marriage is like a roofie slipped in Lake Baikal
With its own fecal moral.
What are you? I recall
That you were the Jonah with a peace-pipe blow-hole, I seem to recall.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, rest your goose nipples,
Children, & go to bed.
The sun & me, we believe in treasure, we believe our ship's wake is Jesus Christ's ripples.
We will eat insects. We will wear linen bonnets upon our heads.
And never departed,
With myrrh & incense,
Children, & dream of the future of money, sail to space from your beds.

Evacuate the Species Prayer

Like a pocket of railway steam in the morning, let us come home,
And eat lettuces & pontificate.
Free your televisions from their cages, let them out to be free to roam,
Let them play Jack Benny's violin, let them eat your grandmother's famous baked ziti,
And eat cabbages & recreate.
Can we ride this train towards Salt Lake City,
Or pay for it with pocket change or redecorate the White House with graffiti?

Like a pocket of railway steam up your nose, I suppose,
Orientalled & occidentalled,
I would dress up like a hero to rescue you, tight pants over my pantyhose,
Flying over Brooklyn like Whitman or Hart Crane the hobo,
Cemented like they were entitled,
Accolade the empty air bestow,
Don't you know the off-tracks, the lost train & stony loco-voodoo blow.

Like a pocket of railway steam, bespectacled westward,
Myopic but not nearsighted,
But some men take their railway liquor to the buffalo herd,
But some men sew a pocket below the hole in their pocket:
The rubber trees blighted,
Ediford's automobulb in its socket,
And boom. But some men take their troubles up in a crayfish rocket.

Like a pocket of railway steam at tea, let it be me
Who eats the spinaches,
Let us drink Hennessy thru Tennessee & set free our shackled teevee,
Open tributaries, meal to meal I'm skinnier & full of honey,
Until the minstrel finishes,
And out drops funny money,
Open tributaries of the great river, crossed & cross-eyed as Christ's Easter Bunny.

Like a pocket of railway steam, evacuate the species,
Take it all to Californo,
Exploring empty empathy toward yuppies & the doomed humble-bees,
Take these leafs out of the busted refrigerator car, make a giant salad by the side of the tracks,
Trade it for Hart Crane's porno,
Replace what the planet lacks
With girded iron & 1980's pop, & gird up for when the mothership attacks.

other poems in the prayer series.

Fancy Asian Prayer

Composed near Varna, July 2009 (for M.P.)

Then the poor are fed with honey cream, & a time for war profiteers,
And escape from our system,
Six feet above a five-foot cloth, up to our ears in reindeer tears,
Up past our craniums in enriched uranium,
Way down past crystal Istanbul,
Down beyond the Jewish doughnut museum,
I found you chewing your cud & I found you dead as Antietam.

Then the poor are fed with honey cream, mixed with Chartreuse,
And more simple syrup.
Tell me, Mr Nixon, why don't we surrender before we lose?
Tell me, Mr Clinton, we know you're a sucker for toilet humor:
We know you're gay as a rancher's stirrup,
Away & forgotten, a dumpster rumor,
Or a freegan minstrel, then the poor are removed like the galaxy's tumor.

Then the poor are fed with honey cream, I'm just staring across
At the cross cleaving her buns, I can sit by the river & drink cappuccino & look lost:
Men patriotically stand up & sing the Greenlandic National Anthem:
"The way of matured civilizations
"It is our zealous goal to bring home."
I'll stay seated & drink slower & look like a lost phantom.

Then the poor are fed with honey cream, monstrously & atrociously silly,
Monstrously misinformed & dead wrong,
I'm just staring across at the pain in her belly,
At the lindens at daybreak & the wise men grown wiser,
Ask to shake a nation long,
Naughtily molested by a fossil incisor,
Ask politely to shake the dust of your flying carpet, ask her nicer.

Then the poor are fed with honey cream, stand up & sing,
The yellow wing will pay one day,
Ruminating past the farthest reach, orphans in the arms of the yellow wing,
Write down your history my friends, point with feeling & gesticulate,
And nothing will be okay,
You wait for the library's circular heriditate,
Learn the names on the gravestones, & be expelled & rusticated before it's too late.