For wifout curious dogs, or sorcerers, and whoremongers, Murderers, and idolaters. Whosoever loveth the lie, What sinner be ta slap and dowse me wake a me sweats or Chockin’ a me own bile, As I be scourged wif pangs and bale a the world’s demise. And Kananaios ask, “Who be this press a foundlings?” And I, “They be what think the dagos come ta take him.” “And who ta be took? “ “What ask? Bloody Yeshi no doubt,” says I. “But the guineas be but Atilius and a coupla ruperts,” says K . By compare Yeshi’s gillie’s be many.” So’s I, “and many but shite a the sword As mos’ his fry be fey a his will What be a false coze.” “So John.” K. ask. “Be you baffle Pilato Be ripe ta off our genie?” “Fuck no. But what it be a gent like you What be ta scribe our rebbi true And baffle his will what be a death beyond life? He got somethin’ in mind a you. But you be desperado What betray his franchise? Ain’t you curious what be happenin’ here. Somethin’ you not know. Yeshi be clear a his mind but his soul be mad. He’s dyin’ I think. He hates all a this. He hates it… The voices. But he got plans for you. Na, na. I’m not gonna help ya. Your gonna help him, man. Your gonna help him. I mean what they gonna say, man, When he be gone, huh? Because he dies. When it dies, man. When it dies. He dies. What they gonna say about him? What. They gonna say. He was a kind man? He was a wise man? He had plans? He had wisdom? Bullshit, man. Am I gonna be the one what ’s gonna set’em straight? Look at me. Wrong! You. You Kananaios . For I be too battered and baked a Barsabbas’ elixirs What I be shadow boxin’ wif angels. And see rainbows ‘bout an emerald throne What confound the fishmongers at their nets. And beasts wif eyes fore and bung What a man be covered in boils and barnacles Such as mine be a fond practice a rue and stinkweed. I bein’ acquitted higher than most what mop about A golden bowl full a god’s wrath. Rivers a blood and bleedin’ rivers and springs. Darkness, fires, sores, vermin and drought. What our masih claim ta be Sardis ‘thief in the night’ What shake down said burg, Sodom, What under Tibi be rebuilt. Our rebbi wif his idle threats and select alarums What get the people so cheesed off, Sore they not repent. As such be me incline. And they gather ta face the Thief at Megiddo And not falter a his barmy caprice. And I stagger as me head be a crazin’ glass A ashen world it doth impart Such that monsters puff and wretch upon our rebbi, What lady Magdala shew off, A giantess a horrific grimace. And there be a woman upon a crimson beast Havin’ seven heads and ten horns And be these upon beast or beauty I cannot say Such be Barsabbas’ brew and a fortune’s tellin’. But that I prefer it be beast be so deformed As ta make me not go limp a the tart. I not claim I not be privy a the true sayin’s. I just not be a bloke ta sort such From dragons and shanks bolt ta gullet or Where the waters roar huzzahs as be a Indi’s shores. Or be our Yeshi drippin’ a blood What be not what he impart mostly, nor be his gift, But that others die in his sake For want a arms, Callin’ legions a vultures what such numbers Shite a battlefield a fine guano glaze Wif so many dead ta stuff down their goozles. But what import be it ta get our rebbi straight Where the broad bide us And the bidin’ be cardinal? What be this after-chance What ta be as by Joe’s rue. Heaven? Hell? I knock about the whole menagerie And still be here ta slur me tale? I mean I seen it what Yeshi babble on, Complete wif whore. What me belfry do wonder as be fit A what heady rue be in me blood. For it be no bloody rood make me straight. About the Author: Carlo Parcelli has spent 40 years studying the epistemology of science and technology and their effect on the natural world and naturally evolved cultures. He specifically challenged the efficacy of progressive systems of quantification, mathematization, mathematical discretion, formal systems game theory etc., since these elements form the core of the way western man can think about his world and all the limitations such an epistemology implies. Parcelli has written 14 book length poems which embed numerous sources and elaborate in great detail his insights. He has also written numerous articles. Now, he is content to watch the Earth scribble its own Apocalyptic Epic in real time. Having failed to reach virtually anyone concerning his epistemological concerns and seeing the natural world taking its future into its own hands via global climate change, Parcelli embarked on a retelling of the Synoptic Gospels. The Canaanite Gospel is comprised of 88 monologues, primarily eyewitness accounts known as Divine Depositions, recorded by the Apostle Simon Kananaios or Simon the Zealot in the First Century A.D. He currently spends his evenings busking local bars in the Washington DC area dressed as Simon Kananaios, performing his monologues in exchange for drinks and the occasional monetary remuneration. Visit carloparcelli.com for performance videos and more. The 88 published monologues: order through Amazon or Country Valley Press "So's the boys at the pub ask, if he's resurrect, where the fuck is he?"             -Lazarus Poet Vaudevillian Carlo Parcelli _______  The Canaanite Gospel A Meditation on Empire 88 Monologues Country Valley Press / FlashPoint ISBN 978-0-9820196-2-7      $11.95 Earlier versions of the monologues can be found in:   FlashPoint Spring 2010 / Issue 13 For information about live performances of The Canaanite Gospel see our Live Performance online flyer.