The American Jesus

Who is the American Jesus,
There can be only two?
Does he walk with the desert,
Violin bow playing the lines of power,
strings, fugue, and rave,
Playboys and infinite orgasm,
MTV and Samadhi,
Christ consciousness,
Silk ties and Bentleys ...
Or is the American Jesus fat,
bullhorn yelling,
Programmable,
Red-faced clutching a Bible,
With a Chevrolet up his ass
And the resume of cow incarnations.

Does the American Jesus
Love women
Or hate them?
There can be only three,
Indifference,
Egypt, Atlantis, that cold power
Of woman’s matrix,
To collide with child
And make me hard.
Does the Yankee Jesus take their pain?
Or does he hate pussy that is free?
The unexpropriated puntang,
Lesbian and underage,
No living rooms,
Ecstatic abortions,
Out of control Jesus,
Daughter fucking,
Nigger-Bitching,
Pro-life,
Chattel and the Church,
A hunter of women
To bind them in Tupperware realities,
Whose piss is the Jesus lemonade, 

The fear and trembling of the Female Buddha,
And the power of her orgasm
In juxtaposition
To the solitary penis
Helpless and forgotten
Amidst the steel grip of civilization

Does the American Jesus love me
And is he coming in my mouth when the ridiculous cows come home?
The minutia, my God!
Will this gringo Jesus rise out of the Euphrates
As the Cable Television genocide that Jesus promised,
Santa Claus in Iraq, sweet crude and hard-ons for Catholic boys?
Or rather,
Am I at a club with Jesus
Drinking golden jazz wines from Spain,
In London,
Central Park,
Circles swaying gaily within circles,
Smiles so wide as to swallow nations,
Remembrances of galactic war, execution,

And the pyramid karma
of our beloved capitalists.

Jesus,
We need to know,
Who is the American Jesus?
There can be only one.