The muse induces glorious trance:
She beckons to the lyric dance.
Descending from the heights of data,
Latin love, persona grata,
She knows my madness, used to me
“Go write some verse” she coos to me,
An ever-patient Muse to me . . .

My woke and wild Parnassian queen
Now conjures a pathetic scene:
The nations murmur in despair—
Technocracy would strip them bare.
Dictating mandates from on high,
Foul globalists would justify
An anti-world of endless strife:
Data-driven shit that passes for life,
Intending to impose their rules
On us: their meek plebeian tools.
They stimulate a failing system,
See what cashless chaos gets them;
Nouveau-feudalism’s ranks
Fund every war and prop up banks . . .
They’ll launch the drones and dig the pits;
Force it on upon us until it fits,
Then plunder, as the system fails.
Angels fall. It’s in the details.

The Lord of wine and Canaanite whores,
Born from Rahab, Tamar, and Ruth,
Has ceased from His bronze-age holy wars
To offer eternal life and truth.

He’s unimpressed with Judah’s sin,
Talmudic blasphemies and lies;
The other tribes come streaming in
While Roman troops revive and rise.

We sense a second flood is due
To rinse the earth of humankind
And punishing sin, make all things new . . .
Thus Daniel, Job and John divined.

God’s current spokesmouths miss the mark.
Dark clouds are gathering. It looks
Like doors are closing on the Ark;
In vain they seek His face in books.

We take our cues from Pharisees—
Assured we are not Canaanites,
Engrossed in genealogies
While tyrants take away our rights.

But Christ Himself was not ashamed
To have a harlot in His line.
And so the Jews must not be blamed
For willful blindness to His sign.

It’s time for you to to get up to speed,
Take up and read, like Augustine . . .
Discern the messianic seed
And family lines, and in between.

They say that near the end
It was a world of crying men and hard women,
A city of goddamn and Jehovah
Baptized in finance
without benefit of saints . . .

Jean Toomer: Blue Meridian

Clickbait agitates the cloudy waters,
Disorienting fish, the mud settling.
Fake News owns the pond. God’s sons and daughters
Must hook facts on line while internetting.
Trolling, baiting traps for online patsys,
F.B.I. informers pose as Nazis.

Fakers strut. Let journalism cower.
C.I.A. manipulates our media;
Operation Mockingbird in power,
Drawing from the spook encyclopedia.
Give them the social credit when it’s due;
They’re paid to place the birdcage over you.

Dividing or dismembering the truth,
(Like VE-RI-TAS upon that Harvard shield)
The dead word bleeds from every polling booth
Decrypting what the algorithms sealed.
Yet raking muck has always found its charm
In excavating pigsties on the farm.

Fake Jews, fake temples, fake churches, all fake;
Globalist know-it-alls, devoid of God
Re-cast idols for the awful remake
Trampling over everyone’s rights roughshod.
Antichrist, the Sequel: technocracy
Ensnares all in beastly hypocrisy.

Entitled knuckleheads rack up degrees.
We wait for something, anything, to blow.
Armchair eschatologists soon to sneeze,
Behold Clownworld’s obscene, unfunny show;
Eunuchs dye their feathers in rainbow hues
While forcing on the circus their crazed views.

Fishponds, data pools, and aviaries
mix metaphors in hog-wallows in drag.
Spring sun warms the snowflake adversaries
Fading the hues upon their rainbow flag.
Poetry reduced to incoherence . . . 
Beauty: only known in disappearance.