THE IMMACULATE CITADEL OF GOD, INTOLERANCE AND SPITE...

The Fig Tree

The fig tree behind the church

– Old as a bible...and fecund –

Sprouts figs and its branches

Weigh with fruit

Fragrant, dark figs

That the homeless smell as they walk the alley

That birds flock to when they are ripe

And it seems like the priests in the Immaculate compound

Know

And send the gardener

To trim the branches hanging over the fence

And keep the people from reaching them

To eat

With rolls of razor-sharp concertina wire

And barbed wire fencing

The fruit rots

And falls to the ground inside the buttressed walls

Until the birds are gorged with fruit

To have ungodly homeless eat them

Is an affront to the house of God

The same priests who

Complain loud and long

When nearby clubs in the entertainment district

Filled with young people – dressed like devilish goths – 

Crowd 'round a Jukebox,

And offend their divine repose

Long after services and masses are done

They meditate with God

And complain they can't connect with Him

What with that satanic music

From those ungodly youths...

And prod the magistrate 

To shut them down

They cannot stand their figs feeding the poor

And the life energy of youth

Spoiling their sanctimonious rest

Let the figs rot

And the homeless hunger.

Still the mirth of youth, those infidels

And squelch their rock and thunder

Around your citadel

Stanch the life force 

Of God's children

Let the ripe figs and pahuas drop,

And rot