The Scrotum of Eternity
I’ve heard the melody
the one about a rock of ages,
the one Jesus wrote for Mary
while she slept in a cheap hotel room
near the Ocean City boardwalk.
The words melted onto his notepad.
Their children lay sleeping in this lion’s lair
of a world, a world he didn’t know nor understand.
Son of God? No, son of no one.
He was the bastard child of a myth.
Mary stirred in her sleep and Jesus stirred in places
myths are born.
Tomorrow he would search the dumpsters.
This king of kings starved while his fans ate escargot.
He and his family would travel the coast
nowhere near the Galilee.
Nowhere near the book of fiction
written by kings and scribes with bellies full of pizza.