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He fills the flower vases, trims the candle bases, takes small change

from

the poor box. Tyler has the key. He takes nail and hammer to tack up

the

banner of felt scraps glued together reading, "Jesus Lives In Me."

Alone in

the night he mocks the words of the preacher: "God is feeling your

every pain."

Repair the Christmas stable, restore the plaster angel. Her lips begin

to

crumble and her robes begin to peel. For Bible study in the church

basement,

hear children Gospel citing, Matthew 17:15. Alone in the night he

mocks the

arms of the preacher raised to the ceiling, "Tell God your pain."

To him the world's defiled. In Lot he sees a likeness there; he swears

this

Sodom will burn down. Near Sacred Blood there's a dance hall where

Tyler Glen

saw a black girl and a white boy kissing shamelessly. Black hands on

white

shoulders, white hands on black shoulders, dancing, and you know

what's more.

He's God's mad disciple, a righteous title, for the Word he heard he

so

misunderstood. Though simple minded, a crippled man, to know this man

is to

fear this man, to shake when he comes. Wasn't it God that let Puritans

in

Salem do what they did to the unfaithful?

Boys at the Jubilee slowly sink into brown bag whiskey drinking and

reeling

on their feet. Girls at the Jubilee in low-cut dresses yield to the

caresses

and the man-handling. Black hands on white shoulders, white hands on

black

shoulders, dancing, and you know what's more.

Through the tall blades of grass he heads for the Jubilee with a

bucket in

his right hand full of rags soaked in gasoline. He lifts the shingles

in the

dark and slips the rags there underneath. He strikes a matchstick on

the box

side and watches the rags ignite. He climbs the bell tower of the

Sacred

Blood to watch the flames rising higher toward the trees. Sirens

wailing now

toward the scene.
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