When you first see him,
The large man in front of a focused crowd,
With perfect teeth,
Fists of limestone,
And suspenders that stay put,
You instantly think,
He will never be the type to die for anything powerful,
By anything powerful,
And the steady noise in his corridors,
And the rattle of silverware in his mansion,
Will all be for show.
You think you can be majestic too,
By some special gamble,
That is, if your god was right in the head.
This is a valid dream,
But by design, not many gods are right in the head.
This large man will crack dirty jokes,
Pomade his full hair with a tiny brown comb,
Fund your bitterness, kiss your fat babies,
Adore your fat wife, and force laughs from priests and celebrants.
Hours after he is long gone from the aisles,
His cologne will hang in there like
an invisible killer gas, an omen,
Reminding of his presence,
Reminding of your supreme lack.
Go home you wharf rat,
It will say,
Get naked in toto,
Fight with your fat wife,
Go on your knees in the thick dark,
Light a little red candle or two.
Weep bitter tears of basalt,
And pray in kosher English,
With your heads bowed to this once sacred earth.
With bleeding wrists,
Evoke the buttons and bones of your drying ancestors,
Sing a battle cry, listen to the drums tremble,
Smell the greatness coming from the cold North.
You will awake tomorrow, alive, poetic.
Bright and early,
You will look in the plate mirror,
Your large nostrils are become perfected,
You shave without event,
Your fat wife floats intoxicated,
Your coffee is accurate,
And a pretty young thing on the train,
Smiles softly in your general direction.
The sun will be ripe,
Omens in the air,
There is melody in hell after all,
You clear you throat,
Dust your shoes.
Still, as soon as you enter,
You smell it —
The fragrance of the man who will never die for anything powerful,
By anything powerful.
And in his stone hands,
Your destiny lies,
He is the god you will forever know,
He is the god you should have prayed to.
Hank, like most sensible men,
Go pray some more.