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Pilot Poem on Pontius Pilate


 ...Multiple flashbacks--Lazarus, resisting the nascent cult 

offering itself to his unwelcome charisma, 

is sought by Pilate's wife--

under each other's spell they finally fall, a whirlwind,

reaped and again, sown...

 --A cuckolded Pontius Pilate (unknowingly)

then receives the "unusual" son of his own..


"Have thou nothing to do with that just man:

for I have suffered many things this day

in a dream because of him"...--Pilate's Wife (Matthew 27:19)


Conscious Pilate wet his hands.

His face went up in ripples

frowning over the basin scowling over the sink rubbing

palms till fragrance rose

in pink foam

about each wrist: well what did she think!?

that Rome could Tower on a foundation of silk & mercy?!

Let her turn from his touch then, gnawing the name

of that imagined flower in her sleep


"Azaris, come forth! O look Azaris everywhere!"

all: over this soft-spined fable of a would-be Jewish King who

stands here without a sound or a mindful look


...who stood there not saying a thing...

 Cool, distant these past months

she would be cold indeed tonight, their anniversary...

Attendants towelled his hands and Pilate further


Empires press hard by definition--crush ahead

whether Babylon or Egypt or Rome...

pressure greets progress from the grave up--a measure of bloodshed

greases the underbelly--allowing history's grander scale,

like it or not.

And since when was Power for the Squeamish?

Order is its own reward, a delicate issue

assured on a compost of fatal suffering--the imperial flower

holds its bloom in a telling soil of examples!

ALL need to see and know: seditious hallucinations

are drastically "discouraged"...the more mnemonic the agony

the better then. Vivid spectacles of conviction, slow death~

crucifixions & so forth...stem the rabble and stay the course.

When such nerve fails, the end is near.

Mortal Fear. The House Stands for it, by it, of it:

preserved with all due force, Order prevails

Order is Good, the House Stands.

Consumed in thorns, true to form,

Rome was a Black Rose.

Pilate grimaced & turned as the lashes fell

and fell, like blinks at something in the eye

of a Storm.

The sky itself bruising now. Rain soon, or heat lightning.

A few hours would tell.

But this hardly seemed a reason to recall the odd thing Herod said

about the baptist, the mad hermit, "John" the Baptist

yes--"a look grim with awe, as if his head fell away of seeing God"

And he knew and cursed his knowing so well

too much of how it was

that his wife tonight would suffer

neither the passion of his explanation

nor bear the patience of his tenderest touch.

She would carry an impossible child from that day

conceiving a visage of stillbirth

building under a caul

the eleven-fingered mystery of a son

whose father

was Lazarus...



Truth Proves The Heresy Of The Dogma

And Providence Loves Irony...

With the Extra Finger

his son will become a lyre prodigy;

he will never know his father alive,

and life will flash 'inside-out'

when death comes for Lazarus by water...

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