Tamil Sun, Jesse of South Christiana

by Harijan

Tamil sun
in relentless pursuit
drove swamis naked in madness
In front of our eyes
Just like the Greek priests
and Roman clergymen.
The same priests who,
disrobed us for raw selfish gratification
who, from unhealthy fear of Yaweh,
robbed us of our innocence.
Left us blind
trembling naked,
Pitiful offerings suitable only
for the altar of angry god of capitalism
That which Jesse called Wal-Mart.

Meaningless sacrifice
base and crazy.
By chance or by heart
Escape church and state

Run east
Swim ‘cross the green ocean
Past the Roman clergy
and Greek priests
Dry yourself and run again
This time east, east, south.
Stopping only at the sour aroma of iddly

Tamil sun
Burn away shame and ignorance
Holy incinerator for all things unholy
Standing naked myself before the Indian gods
Vishnu, Krishna, and the elephant with eight arms
Vowed never to return to that old Greek pederasty
Granted a parole from the spiritual penitentiary
Returned to the United States
of “Go-back-to-your-country!”
to my roommate,
Jesse of South Christiana
Accomplice to crime of blind-leading-blind.

I told Jesse,
“I wont miseducate no more.”
And also to fuck off
for the years of lies he’s told.
And to go to hell
ask for forgiveness
from all the people he’s damned.

Blue eyed Jesse,
gentle in his way
and weary of crazy naked men,
took my suggestion seriously.
Only to find out,
all children of god are
ineligible for admission.
“You are not welcome here.”

My friend!
No longer willing
to participate in the pederasty himself
in the kingdom of his heavenly father
One dreary morning,
Suddenly left to Tamil Nadu,
Leaving the following list of things:

1. a short note Which said
“Remember to feed my brothers”;

2. a drawer full of expired coupons
For large water pales
And plastic bowls and utensils;

3. his recipe book
Including his favorites
“Fish and chips for 5000 people,” and
“The easiest fucking moonshine you’ll ever make.”

Left me,
Hungry and lonely.
Without much recourse
But to go to hell myself.
Where, on a delayed arrival,
I found family and friends,
Few conscionable capitalists.
Blue collar workers,
Colored people,
Young dead soldiers,
Dead soldiers who used to skate board.

On top of this heavy Tamil sun,
Not really hell,
But not rally heaven, either.
Waving ecstatically at the only blued, eyed Jew in India:
Jesse of South Christiana.
He, completely naked except for his sunglasses,
Riding a 150 cc Nor’east
Towards an Afghani cave,
In search of ancient herb,
Meant for Osama
which apparently never got used
and by this Karmic failure
leading to an unholy Jihad
Of amputation of phallic structures
theretofore double-penetrating the New York skyline.
Now gone,
like our clothes of innocence.

Our American hero rests,
In the cool alcove
Where, Coca cola and the American corn has never set foot
Where, the erotic autoasphyxiating priests
can no longer molest either his genitalia
nor his tender heart.
Where, yin and yang are suspended in pure orgy
every thursday night.

Tamil Sun
Burned away
Priestly robes
stained with blood
and other unmentionable bodily fluids
of One Jesse
of South Christiana.