Stinking of piss
in a hovel in Scotsdale
he slams the door
on the backs of Mormons
after lecturing them to numbness
on the follies of mammon.
Over the back paddock
he sees Mrs Christ come waddling
with his bucket of soup.
All about her head the moon
as night prepares for frost.


         From Hyde Park to the Domain
he mounted his soap box
to denunciate God and politics,
to end up here in hermitude,
promulgating fairy tales, elves,
the comfort of leprechauns.
Where ever they fed him he spoke.
Ranted, some called it.
Caught frothing at the mouth
in black&white by 4 Corners,
a hairy relic of yesteryear
in feverish oration.
No topic above contempt,
deserving of his wild rhetoric.
For six months a guest
of the Shah of Iran who
bade him peel grapes disguised
as proverbs and cinquains.
The Communists outstunted him.
Every dwarfed issue of the day.
Even your soft pop-star
in search of an answer
beguiled to convert to Islam,
who then renounced that crack
pot novelist. All the fuss
that followed. He slid back
up the spiral of his shell
appalled at the power
of grunting.


        He turns his hearing aid
down to a murmur here in Scotsdale;
body language is sufficient
human contact for anyone.
Childlessness his one saving grace.
- Bark if you want his attention.
Throw things if there is smoke.
Yap, gesticulate, let your teeth
snap at his awful white neck
if you suspect he is alive beneath
the soup stains and all else
that he has been.
He will find the fire exit
alone, or else worm
his own warmth from the flames.

Outside, as frost settles
on shivering sheep,
old adversaries wake. Our
Mythical Lady, whom he loves
beyond logic, approaches
over the moonlit paddock.
Her dear deaf silence.
Her beautiful mute blue.
The offered caul
dripping in her hands
with the stars of her son’s blood.