Palm Sunday is long gone for this year.
It will, however, rise again when a new spring arrives
With much hustle and bustle in churches small and large,
With fronds waving to bamboozle the faithful into thinking
They're not the asses being ridden into a spiritual oblivion
On a road paved with historical, hysterical fables and lies,
The pavers beings, of course, those clerics
Whose lives depend upon such fabrications...
What follows is a portion of a poem titled "Palm Sunday," by Frederick Seidel, printed in Harper's Magazine, August 2012.
Manhattan shrinks to a tiny tooth
Of towers far below as we accelerate violently into verse and space
And leave the road behind.
Congress is having a stroke, and it's a heart attack, and it can't face
China and the truth
Fulminating from Duluth.
[...]
My subject is New York outside my window where
The world is a mirage in the nude.
My subject is the Sunday-morning TV talk shows, which I,
Loving politics, eat like food.
I must say, Palm Sunday means nothing to me. I don't care.
It's almost time to nail Christ to the air.
It's almost Easter and the pundit in the sky.
I hope there really is another universe---
New evidence says there must be---where Jesus isn't born,
Nor the Buddha, nor Mohammed, all that porn.
Evidence indeed suggests other universes, nursed by the universe breast,
The Big Bang being the breast, the first suck being the best,
Because that suck is the void in reverse.
Then came the Pharisees, Pontius Pilate, six million Jews killed, and worse."
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