The prophets have abandoned us to our lies
“The second angel poured out his bowl into the sea, and it became
blood like that of a dead man; and every living thing in the sea died.”
Estimated Prophet – © Geoffrey Philp
The prophets have abandoned us to our lies.
They’ve packed spare clothes, retreated to the Mojave
Where they can still bless wild, untamed spaces
Praise the elation of kestrels, their aerial dance
Away from smoke that poisons the brave,
Threads a man’s lungs and veins with fine lace,
Sweetens a mother’s milk that darkens her firstborn’s eyes:
Rattlers coiled under a Joshua tree stand a better chance.
And it’s no use begging like televangelists for them to come back
Who’d want to listen on the “burning shore” anyway?
Everyone knows true holy lands are way across the sea
And you can’t Twitter prophecy anymore than you can save
Pelicans from the spray of dispersants or mangroves from an oil slick.
No, better to mortgage our dreams. At least, that’s what the voices say.