a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

The Cost


Pass the plate

because it’s going to cost you

Slaughter your savings
and paint with what flows

Find a tailor in the next town
and tell him everything:
gold, purple, scarlet yarns

You will be smeared with
the blood of your best

it’s going to cost you

(All this violent pageantry
seems frivolous until you
remember the treasons

Consider the offense and
the penitence seems insufficient
even if bankrupting)


Will you give me a hearing?
I came as quickly as I could

Word may not have reached you
but the show is over

Fold the black-stained robes
and collect bones

Preserve the ark and the curtains
as an ebeneezer

It is paid for

it cost him everything


The Song