Pirates of Jerusalem

Looked into God's eye, a skull and crossbones
appeared in the coronal port, lit-dark, a protest
perhaps, a sudden-link message, a flash,

the fleet of the damned, ghosts
of Templar Scots from Malta
secreting deep cargo at night,
descending castle towers with ropes,
dropping loot to men in panic:
The Catholics are coming!

Red & white armies are coming!
All is unwell at the well
where the barking birds
whistle and five dollars
may as well be five hundred
Drums whisper, the gentle
lilting flute falls on deaf ears;
the Catholic Blues Band
is just too damn loud.
Listeners can only hear
the deep down out and clink
of patio chairs as the damn
breaks at the wanderlust dusk
seven years after we exchanged
a white shirt for black,
the barkers are back.
We scream into the night:
All is quite well at the well ...
all is well, well, well
and the contrasts
in the gloaming,
so stark, form rainbows
gleaming from bed bug eyes,
young bucks, fresh faces
as the last boat is loaded
and pointed toward
an imagined meridian line:
Thank sweet Jesus we didn't
cross the continent
in a Mussolini time.

Stand up bass, white shirt, cowboy hat,
sunlight, a bit bright, sunglasses, ebony dark,
as the drum circles behind me
at the first water well drilled in Flagstaff
percolates into the overculture
of red rocks rock-a-billy Jerusalem stuff,
celebrating the gasohaulic furies
of people who cannot let go:
O, to whatever
hearing I have left,
praise thee Baphomet!
Look here, in the cold air,
off-peak hours, the cinder
is soft, a softened crown
to the daemons all drowned
as the stratus clouds
of shielded sun
offers solace & a place,

a below-zero, red shifting,
purposeful center to be,
pumping the heartbeat pulse
of Captain Bob Marley

sailing across the waves.

~ Douglas McDaniel
Mythville, America