by Peter Gallaher
“Show me Your face.”
Isn't that the way of it?
“And I will be satisfied,”
Is how it goes
And so…
We have five hundred channels to choose from
Beamed from a geo-stationary satellite on high.
Who needs holocausts of thousands
Of fat rams and bullocks
With all that blood, rendered fat
Screaming and swirling smoke;
Bloody priests and bloody knives,
Oracles and auguries
In caves, dark sanctuaries,
Sacred groves, on mountain tops
Or Crucifixes.
We have five hundred channels, now,
With fifty different kinds of music,
Seven kinds of HBO, the NFL package
And movies on demand available
Twenty four seven.
That's heaven!
