And the people ran
Not away, but toward the altars
Towards broken bread and cheap wine
Towards Him
And so consumed do the buildings become
Overflowing with single celled organisms
That white collars swing thick ropes across the
Great wooden doors
And heave them together
The mourners and preachers and believers
Stuck together like one holy puzzle
Man woman and child
Are closed in and safe and
Proven right
At least in their own minds
The shared mind
The terrified mind
Friedrich would laugh
And Wilson and McKenna
And Bucky Fuller
Meanwhile the ghost of Voltaire, pisses
Down onto the ornate steeple and roof
Those inside exclaiming ‘praise heaven for
The tears of god!’
And outside
On the shining cobbled streets
We few are left with
All our hearts desire
The space and freedom and divided truth
Anarchy and love
With no sirens or flags
No clowns dressed as dictators
Our own version of the world
And the world as it should be.