The Coming Second Coming

When Jesus comes again

To push a cart and live off food stamps in the rain

Don’t expect to recognize Him

And don’t expect Him to recognize you either

When His words froth on the ocean of our solipsism

They will seem the ravings of a mad fool

If they lock Him up it will be under laws

Carefully laid out by voter-supported government officials

When He speaks of thieves and outcasts

Straining against His straitjacket

They will diagnose Him

And sedate Him to prevent Him

From injuring Himself and others

And when He meets the fallen angel

Risen in the alleyways of your metropolis

Half blind and fresh home from the wars

They will lock in a stumbling combat quite unworthy

Of generations raised on choreographed violence

And the pit one casts the other in

Will be muddy and cold and not far from your door

And you will walk past as quickly as you can

Averting your eyes

When he sits, black-eyed, in the Gethsemane of your local bar

Reeking of two thousand moldering years

With His motley band of whores and indigents

You will complain to the bouncer

And have Him trundled into the parking lot

Through the window you will watch His bloodied form

Crawl into a dumpster to sleep

As testament to His omnipresence

When you see Him in the library

Every inch a mottled stain

Staring at the books without reading, bemused

Knowing every combination of words

And ineffably bored with it all

You will look at Him only over your shoulder

As befits a true god

And when He dies

In the ditch His father prepared so long ago

His father who knows

Truth is no truth lest it be leavened with atrocity

When He dies

With the bottle in His hand

Emptied of all but the last dregs our sins

The police will scowl and spit in the grass

And thank the Lord for preserving us

From His fate