Jesus Christ has no advantage over Genghis
Khan. They’ve both weighed in and taped their fists.
The Mongol’s looking swole, and Christ looks pissed.
Bring sword, not peace, and blood, not bliss:
the swept leg betters the betrayer’s kiss—
not since the crystal-cracked theosophists
have two such mystics met to coexist,
bump hands across time’s void and dark abyss,
then ring the bell and in the octagon
the Son of Man against altan uruq,
love’s leading lender battles horded head,
while missiles fly and drones strike Babylon,
the crowd goes wild; blood pools in the souk;
the stone rolls back; the dead remain the dead.