At first, it was a few vacant looks.
Then, the black space
behind the masks.
Now, it seems the whole planet
has filled with the same
unpronounceable lack.
When we first heard the manic
preacher's sermon, the words sounded
so fantastic,
but when we look now
we just see the empty robes of a
raving hobo Jesus—
his vast and urgently
flailing sleeves
of depletion
and insolvency—snagging against
the splinters of panic
and loose nails of greed,
until the prospect of our emancipation
has been shredded to pieces
in front of our faces,
but we can't turn away—
because there is no looking
back.
