Inimīcus Sacer

He averred an aversion
premised on a promise
immutable, yet muted:

That messianic hopes
ought to stay kindled—
unquenched by the
Nazarene’s chrism.

Salvation must be more of
white horses and war;
less of giving gifts
to lazy, desperate thieves.

Also, an allegation:

That our this-worldly
predicament predicates
on a paucity of strain,
a glutted surfeit of festival.

He did not, does not “like”
(as I neither do nor ever will)
the forcing of the Unforeseen
through the mesh of prophecy,
among other things.

That YHWH’s will is ever,
has ever, been done,
is more scandalous than
any breach of treaty or
protocol. For fulfillment killeth.

Fiat lux & Homo factus est
both burn like gall; like wormwood;
like Heraclitean fire.
There’s no noumenon at all here
under which we might hide.
Non est.

No, heaven must stay barred.
Else our righteous indignation
over Divine indifference will be
all wet. And we wouldn’t want that.

When will we—and I mean he or I—
forgive the sublime sundering of our sky,
this Divine Trespass?
“Oh, no. No, he didn’t…”

But in between him and me
resides the Incarnate One of Three,
giving, not lending, belief—
unapparent, and still not
considering His Godhead


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