self-fulfilling prophecy in poetry

If the Antichrist is ever a real thing,
you know he’ll always pose palms enfolded
against the backdrop of a gauzy Texas flag.

If the Antichrist is ever a real thing,
he’ll always smile and
always go to church on Sunday and
wear a crisp-and-fancy cowboy hat.
No bolo tie, though.
A little too corny for him.
Dark blue business suit with an American flag pin over his heart
that he’d take off to roll up his sleeves
to cut brush on his ranch when the cameras are rolling
or to kiss a baby in some diner out in Bumfuck West Virginia
right after complimenting Edith on her fresh-baked pie.
Apple pie, of course.
With an oily slice of processed cheese on top.
The Antichrist would never take his apple pie
with cool whipped topping
or vanilla bean iced cream
he’ll take his pile with lukewarm cheese
and it’ll never stick to his bright white teeth.
Nothing will stick to that bastard.
If there is one.

The Antichrist will always hate New York City
where everyone’s too burnt-out and angry
just trying to make the rent
to get caught up in hate-marches early.
Berlin was far too cool at first
to ever think old Hitler could make it there.
Only in the end when all the rest bought in
did the cabarets roll over in their lockstep.

The Antichrist will hate Los Angeles as well
where everyone’s too blissed out to care
to worship anything but themselves.
Though he’ll hold his nose from time to time
to visit Hollywood and beg for money.

No, the bastard’s bread and butter
if there is one
would be the south and middle heartland
the lazy bloated bitter racist heartland
the world where folks still give a damn
on posing to the world as normal and
forcing everyone else to play along at gunpoint.
That’s where that fucker will shine
shine like a sick flourescent Bible Wal-Mart noonday sun
that is, I mean
if there is one.

The suburbs of Saint Louis, maybe
he’ll fly out every weekend
from his Dallas compound to the suburbs of Saint Louis
to kiss some policeman’s corrupt ass and
maybe even two more babies.
Maybe.