Dallas Wiebe, p.5


Four thirty-seconds of their teeth
   chattering in harmony,
The cold choir leaned
   over the railing
   to drop their icy decibels
   on the peruke of the Protestant padre,
   who pandiculated
   overtly over the arctic Scriptures.
“Hot dog,” Christ the Pantocrator cried.
“Loosen those uvulas in a hallelujah
   for the spiritual twitching of the trigger.
Fold out the magazines of automatic rifles
   and read therein the fate
   of multinational mind-sets
Pray for me now
   and forget that I have no IRA
   and social security doesn’t cover
On the Palestinian plains
   the tanks and helicopters of Jehovah
   rattle up to the dry cisterns.
Inside the arid rocks
   dark eyes shimmer at gunpoint.
“We are the emissaries of peace,”
   the soldiers say
   and tickle their hairy triggers.
“Soon you will study war no more.”
The eagle’s claws corkscrew
   down out of the clouds.
“Mustard,” we say.
“We need mustard for our gums.
We can’t nestle in your grip
   until the choir sings
   ‘Whoopee, Selah and Amen.’
We know full well
A fool and his hot dog
   are soon parted.”