Like papal anathema, the city’s host of bodies, banished from what they thought was their kingdom, their promised temple of individuality, moved with the sixty seconds on the clocks in their pockets, hiding and tricking each other and themselves like lepers pretending their flesh is still theirs. So they thought, but thought simply wrong. This conglomeration of simple souls, moving westward, borne into traffic fixed together by the sunlitten smog sprayed with daylight, escaped their days into their own Colossus of Rhodes. The congregation being besmitten by these towers of steel and concrete, upward in pursuit of perfection like the now forgotten elixir of immortality, gold, that chalice of Logos, Allah, Void, Brahman, Tao, and Ein Sof, sipped in perfect craft by the alchemist, now bent on housing the bodies of unfortunate fools with telephones and whiteboards harboring a science and dialect of system beyond the houseless Lear’s of the world, the hallowed and wretched ones living in geometry true to itself and no other. In morning and midday, the preacher found at their corner nearing the Solly’s hotdog stand sang throat-gonged his devotion to the Word his unheard words —Eternal Father, I offer You the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Your Dearly Beloved Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world. Blessed be these people. Little did he appear to the crowds, perhaps for the better, for what is it but hilarious metaphysics the sounds and music that be, taking no form, not even word, just the sound and fury of the Idiot humming a promise of circus and play.
phoenixswriting 