55 Poems by Patrick Rost - #3: Jesus, Drag Me in the Desert

Two hundred years ago in the West,
the dust was picked up by radio players,
funneled through cans and mesh,
and splayed out in layers
in a hotel in Bangladesh.

Snorted up by whores and thieves,
it was Jesus who said,
"If you believe,
you'll take it straight to the head."
I believed what he said,
and did drugs 'til I bled,
then I laid in the leaves,
in the foliage bed.

Morocco, Morocco, savior to save,
send down to whores,
send up for slaves,
and trade the silver,
the gold,
the jewels,
for hot-blooded harlots,
who're bred, and break rules.

It's time to preach to the fools,
baptize them gently in pools,
splay out, display what,
dust can do to a bad spot,
the bad part of town,
Jesus' crowd,
an old porch swing
covered in brown,
in a sheen spray of dust,
in an orange coat of rust,
in a California or bust situation,
busted,
lost in transition,
a transmissionary,
screaming hope into brown ears,
and poor queers,
and devout seers, sprayers,
displayers,
in a Spanish bungalow,
splayed out in layers.