The San Judas Project

This town?
This town’s a ghost town.
The backbone’s ground to dust.
The empty sack can’t stand.
The shoes that scuff the streets,
The sick that cakes the sidewalks…
That’s all that’s left.
Waste of space, polluting the air.
Machines coughed on the halos
Blew them out—candles-burnt-book-no-bell.
Errant. They took Dante at his word.

Now it’s just the dybbuks,
The tatterdemalions,
And the idiots who never knew a weathervane.
Now it’s one big ungrounded lightning rod.
Waiting for the storm.

But there’s still something,
Caught in the cobwebs.
A glimmering, Fragile Thing,
Tied and gagged in the basement.
They couldn’t run it out,
Couldn’t destroy it.
So they left it,
Vaulted under twenty tons of concrete despair.
A sanguine oubliette.
But it’s there,
Waiting for the cracks to show.
Bleeding to the surface in all of us.

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate” is less impressive when it’s written in wet cement.

The San Judas Project