"the last apostle"

on his knees and crying

was how i found him.

his feet little more than bloody nubs;

his hands broken below the wrists;

his beard ripped and matted

with charcoal and dung;

his eyes - two ravens

with murderous intent.

the last apostle -

forced to wander the back roads

of obscurity,

he babbled of bribery and deceit -

of lies propagated for 2000 years -

of carpenter’s nails left to rust in the rain -

the last apostle -

broken and battered in the dust

of a north georgia mountain -

looking more like one of eliot’s hollow men

caught forever in the trenches

of a gunpowder afternoon.

the last apostle -

whom i now keep chained to a dumpster

in my backyard,

charging $3 a head for a look-see,

$5 if you want him to sing

"when the saints go marching in."

i’m doing quite well,

if you must know.

next week we do letterman,

and then a brief stint on the surreal life.

the last apostle

should have kept his dirty little mouth closed.