JESUS DISKO DJ

Flagellato, go solo

. Swing is scriptural, the synths corporeal. Crepuscular tempo.Headphones around his holy skull.No thorns now, thank you, only a corona o lights. Lasers spear the dance foordarkness, in a place dankwith saliva, sperm, and sulphur, the volume brutal and bright, like clank o hammer against nail.Blue neon rays stream through the holes in his palms.Jesus drops the needle and an unsot voice grips the ears o sad lovers with grie blacker than vinyl.Believe: salvation soars on the wings o a diva chorus, morphine o movement.From the hal-light o the sound booth he reignsmeek merciul, miraculous,shimmering in a robe o white smoke.Jesuscrossader o aiths, beats, ates. Only his head moves to the hammeringo kick drums.Jesusnailing the grooves with precision and suddenly the dancefoor is Babylon.Serpentine lovers slither against each other’s bodies.No more miracles conceived. No water changed into wine,no sh no bread loaves multiplied, no more sins to orgive, no sinners to receive.

Mercy, mercy, mercy

, Jesus barks into a urious megaphone.

Lose your soul in themusic and be saved.

Te thousand colors o disbelie gleam on a single mirror ballimpure moon,metallic miracles in echnicolor,the promise o paradise swelling with planetary strings, colliding with angry bongos, mad maracas, bellicose cowbells,triumphant trumpets and tambourines, blasphemous bass. All prayers spinningon black polymer plastic 75 revolutions per minute.Consider the needle and damage done to nerves and hopes. Consider thesituation, consider the absurdity.How impossible it is to believe in a savior in a discothequeYet how impossible to believe in a god who does not know how to dance.

Blessed are those who grieve alone.Blessed are those enslaved to the rhythm.Blessed are the impure of faith, the unclean heart

Jesus will save us all: as long as the record playswe won’t hear the world alling apart.

From the th storey window you could seethe thick, thorny legs o the giant letter A.Te monstrous letter A-always the rst in the order o things-Lumbered about mightily like Godzilla or King Kong,Cars crushed underneath like cheap aiwanese plastic toys,Pursuing screams tracing lovely parabolic arcs through the air.No coincidence that the word ‘author’ also starts with the letter A.Barthes said that the author is dead.Maybe not yetalthough there could be a casualty in a ew hours,Depending on whatever grand cosmic design.Meanwhile, a woman sits at a mallside caé,Scribbling on her journal, meditatingOn the possibilities o a uture novel.Somewhere in her notes is this bit o dialogue:

Where are you from?-Te city-What city? It doesn’t really matter. All cities are alike.

Ten she jotted perunctorily on the marginsTat the letter A is not necessary or livingYet men die miserably every day rom the lack o letter A.O course, the letter A in this poem and the letter AShe is talking about could be two dierent things,And that there are exactly 117 letter ‘A’s in this poemAnd they all look alike. Well, almost.I one observes the woman rom aar,You will notice that she isn’t even looking at her watch,Without the slightest hint o the impatienceO people being made to wait.We assume that the woman has no riends,But that she could be a great writer, at least,In the same degree most great artists are inerior human beings.Ten she hears something like a subsonic groanSwelling into an earthshaking boom.She turns her head. For a momentIn the middle o the decibel so intenseIt was almost blindingHer hand stopped moving across the page.