The way he worked the room,
the revival tent, evoked his
“Come to Jesus” moment
tailored for fleecing the faithful,
made you wonder who his lord
and master was, Jesus of Nazareth
or Jesus of Hackensack, a broke
down bodega owner with a network
of artful dodgers, street angels,
runners, and touts, purveyors of
stolen goods and substances so
illegal laws governing their possession
hadn’t been invented yet.
There wasn’t a grift Jesus
wouldn’t back, know about or
invented as long as the principle
invested delivered a regular return
plus interest. His preacher man
was little more than a two bit
Elmer Gantry lookalike, a gone
all the way to seed George Babbitt
reduced to selling DeSoto’s on a used
car lot repo men wouldn’t enter
without armed guards. As far as
Jesus was concerned, all the bills
looked the same in the counting room
no matter where they came from.