Anachronistic Kings


I drive down Pelayo to Aragon to El Camino Real

to get away from my life.

But the dirt of the street

sticks to my aging skin.


Windows rolled all the way down.

Wind (pneuma) cleanses from within.


A rock cracks my windshield.

Can’t I escape my life?


Splintering glass reminds me—

rocks and randomness

are people’s proclivity to strife.


I pick up two hitchhikers,

two queer prophets

(then again, to be fair,

all prophets are a bit queer)—

the king of Babylon and the king of Egypt,

smelling of pomegranates

with flowers in their beards.


Sitting in the backseat,

they argue about their favorite satire

on the Babylonian Bee

and whose biblical dreams

spoiled their REM sleep.


Anachronistic kings,

thousands of years displaced.


Dynasties left behind

in the rearview mirror.

Gods among mortals.


Wisdom cuts like a knife

through filet mignon steak.


“You’re better off,”

says Nebuchadnezzar,

referring to the rock

that fractured my ‘perfect’ life.


“When I was ambitiously young,

looking to grow my Nebu brand

and my Chaldean kingdom,

prophecy struck:


“an invisible hand hewed a rock

from the Mountain

that struck the base of the fountain

that raised to life a statue

with metal alloys and clay parts.


“It came crashing down

and so did the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,

the silver framed Mede and Persian art,

the Greek gods of Olympus,

Nero’s persecution of Christians

at the crooked Colosseum,

and modern Europe’s secularization

of a sacred nation.


“This story, my young sir,

must be retold and properly understood:


“the rock hewn from the Mountain—

the only Kingdom left—

was itself foretold to shatter

into thousands of pebbles

the second the Spirit (pneuma) swept

through palace courts,

Romans roads,

the burbs and the hood.


“Only the predestined

are woken out of their daze

by a pebble that breaks their crave

of driving away from the path and pain

that is their life.”


Pharaoh laughs.


“Seven fat cows swallowed

by seven lean cows.

That is the prophecy every Nietzschean

takes to his grave,

an embalming spice preserved to make,

no matter the number of mummified bandages

used for his escape.”


“This is as far as we go,” sighed Nebu.


“The sage Deity will only hear

the ancient wisdom

of the one whose depths

have led him to walk out on his pride,

on all fours,

eating grass and shrubs

like it was on a banquet table,

living the bovine life for seven years.”


Pharaoh tips me with one last aphorism:


“Seven years of fasting.

Seven years of feasting.


“The former lies as you see it

in the middle of the glass

of your own prison,

a ‘random’ crack.


“The latter waits for you

with anticipation,

praying for you to turn back.”


Gentle Jesus. Born a King.   You laid in a foul feeding trough, appearing to many as humbly.   O Precious Prince,   you were hunted down and brutally beaten like a lamb led to the slaughter.   O Beautiful Savior,   you were so brave to die for me.   Prior to your divine…

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Not your Precious Moments figurines

but sleep-deprived warriors

with holsters for concealer and coffee.

Quick on the draw to conceal lines on their face

and savor the passing whiff of a fresh pot percolate.

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The story of Salvador is complete! It’s taken me 20 years to write it, taking time off in-between to attend several prestigious seminaries to educate myself on the seminal topics of the novel, such as psychology, theology, philosophy and ethics, which have all influenced its themes, such as suffering, hope, doubt, despair, courage, paradox, faith,…

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