It rains corpses and Coca-Cola caps, a sea of blood above rains into the milky whiteness that once was our world, it rains words into a senseless world, into a world with caps on which was written: love, flowers of clay and polished chocolate shiny as a Lego brick, flowers clinging to vines growing from the ground upward, steps toward a red sky full of clouds of blood. Samson was above us, why? Why, Lord? Why did you give the power of the volcano and of fire to bunglers, to people who do not know how to speak your language, who do not understand the meaning of pain, they give a fig about it like water rats; why, Lord, did you show your power to the reckless? Why, Lord, didn’t you let the reckless perish, the reckless who do not speak your language.
Your saints, Lord, your prayerful ones, Lord, those who love you have crashed against the pillar of infamy for you, Lord. Lord, with their blood you have leavened perdition. People have scattered and only the ferrets remain, the beasts of a world without humanity, a desert of good, only a sea of darkness and lost and mangled dreams.
Of your temple, nothing remains but boulders; of your altar, a heap of garbage. Where are you, Lord? Where is the perfume of the saints? Where is the light without beginning? I see nothing but Coca-Cola caps and empty bottles, empty bottles.
