Gerard Varni

ishmael? fuck that punk; call me judas
the betrayer who's desirous lips brushed
anointed flesh, marking it for certain
resurrection--the wretch whose own hide
was doomed to self-annihilation before
the birth-slime had even oozed from his lungs.
we are diminished by our desire
for innocence, and we debase those who
possess it. what does that leave the traitor?
a rope, a tree, coins flung at dying light;
then, a twitching silhouette splayed against
a bloated reddish moon, with head thrown back,
mouth agape and eyes bulging toward heaven.