Che Christ Cruz – Poetry
the poet’s toast: (no thanks given);
–today,
we sit and feast at the final supper of beasts
catered by slaves & fueled by the blood of dead indian tribes
all gathered here, together, in this moment
at the table of chalices & swine
mixed w/ divine decadence
& split amongst the rotted souls of foul-stenched kings, queens,
the diseased carcasses of imperial regimes
the decrepit cadavers of governors, wicked bishops & priests,
savage conquistadores,
nearsighted spanish & italian explorers,
pangea pillagers & extorters
saints & lawyers, bankers & scholars
popes & infidels, judges & jurors,
retired generals & battalion commanders,
conniving retailers & taxmen, standard spineless yes men,,,
& the self-proclaimed sublime & beautiful–
per usual, its all unsuitable in the crucible but still HD viewable
& joined forever here–in the glory of unholy matrimony
attended by lonely drunk theologians & broken-hearted apostles,
self-taught loathers, self-promoters & evil-eyed monsters named leviathan
along w/ the bitter brother named judas w/ a dagger in his hand
& a coiled serpent around his wrists
standing amongst the sheriff’s cold-blooded men
who blow jay edgar’s hoover, wearing high heels & pink boxers–
while addressing crowds of false messiahs & thieves that idolize what is cesar’s
& move mountains with flawed philosophies, and our cheap labor–
erecting steeples in skylines & statues of prophets
in our places of worship they mount their cracked stone-tablets
like former addicts in transit retracing their tracks since the last hit
& recounting golgathan tales like campfire stories woven by clergymen
who are out selling the lords gospel to the children
while sprinkling their heads with d.d.t. (dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane)
when they sleep deep in the night
& filling their pockets w/ gun powder…
rising storms get louder than thunder sticks that sing out in the final hour
about the splendor in a rose or the men on grassy knolls &
the stranger & the straggler both for whom the bell still tolls
ringing forth like hancocks on constitutional scrolls
or neo-concentration camps brought home for the executions
of the young students of pseudo-industrialized revolutions;
they shooting–the leaders of the movement, that speak against the institution
so here’s our retribution sparked by a quick toast given at a banquet for despots & dilettantes
dictators & puppet presidents, & the devils of corporate settlements…
a speech delivered by the last poet still born of this natural realm–
forged beneath sun, moon, and sky, between the pillars of mountain rock & cactus spine
like wind & rain, thunder & lightning–one of the only few that remain, unchained,
but still prisoner to the system & ready to break free;
a living prophecy spawned by the collective actions of the very same ancestors
scattered & buried here, beneath these very high rises,
before which we gather, these towers from which you oppress us…no longer–
“it was upon our backs that these cities were built,
so it is upon your heads that the curses shall fall.”
the anonymous handwriting on the wall, says it all;
and with that said, the sky opened up once more,
& the history of the world unfolded, again,
with the brightness of the sun.
Che
As Us 