Simon Saysrnby Thomas FlemingrnOratorio San GiovannirnUrbino, Good Friday 1994rnYou ask me who I am or what I was,rnthis boy cocking his leg to check a toernfor thorns, painted in plaster, obliviousrnto nature-boy who’s read too much Thoreaurnducking a stranger in the stream; the birdrnfluttering down on cue to scare the hicks;rnhysterical women swearing that they’d heardrnthe thunder speak—all necromancer’s tricks.rnI grew up fast and saw this pious fraudrnbragging he’d build the temple in one day—rnour Yiddish Caesar, a real living god.rnWhen the cops grabbed my coat, I got awayrnbuck naked. Later on I heard his palrndeny he’d ever seen him in his life—rnsmart move for once, it kept him out of jail.rnThis was the wise guy who had pulled the knife.rnThat’s all they had on this god, one slashed earrnand a few miracles. He should have triedrnto cut a deal and poof poof disappear:rnillusions by themselves don’t get vou fried.rnHe’d come to feed the poor and free the Jews!rnKingdoms not of this earth, what earthly goodrnare they? Why not Barrabas? Who would chooserna suffering servant over Robin Hood?rn”Elijah, Elijah,” he’s screaming. Get the hook,rnshow’s over. It’s still a treat to hear him rave,rnthough someone says he cribbed it from a book.rnHe’d save the world, himself he cannot save.rnThomas, of all the Twelve, the only onernI trusted, never liked to talk of souls;rnskeptical of the resurrection,rnhe had to stick his fingers in the holes.rnjust to find out—a real Jew on Christmas.rnThe hypocrites played dumb, refused to sharernthe big finish we called the Lazarus.rnI could have been god too if they’d played fair.rnNow I’m in business for myself: my act—rn”the Power of God Called Great assisted byrnthe brain divine.” Long legs and short skirts packedrnthem in, the best woman money can buy.rnSome days I wish I had not learned to mock,rnbut in my face I see those cold blue feetrnsticking twin tongues out of the sneering rock,rnthe racked flesh impudent beneath the sheet.rnIn this world slaughter-house of here and now,rnwhat man who could be god would not be king?rnIn that darkness there is no golden bough,rnno blood to vocalize the gibberingrnghosts—but there are no ghosts, there is no pain,rnno darkness since there is no light.rnFor your whole life you’re being sucked down that drain,rnleaving behind a bad smell. Let’s get tight:rnIt’s all a mockery, a bloody sham;rnthe marks—God bless ’em—never do get wise.rnHe went off bleating Hebrew like a lambrnthat licks the schochet’s hand before it dies.rnThe universe is empty, and the godsrnabandon us to our inanities.rnIt’s a crap-shoot, with crooked dice and oddsrnthat always pay the house. Faith? A stripteasernnever going all the way—^look, don’t touch.rnNothing but mind-sex on a world burnt out.rnGo breed like rabbits in a hutch:rnThis death is all your life is all about.rnDECEMBER 1994/17rnrnrn