When dust first rose to blind the fallow mass
and Judas followed Jesus, I was there.
They crowned his head with thorns on bloodied hair
and dragged him through the streets beneath a cross.
I tried the blood that flowered on his face
and drank a drop of Jesus in despair,
but nothing in its essence could compare
to Judas blood so strong with thick distaste.
Since that time I feast Iscariot lines,
their blood bulbs grapes that burst on stony ground
too full of juice to hang upon the vines.
It grows in yards with barbs and wire around
and through the years has fed me very well.
I dine on wine matured by infidels.
I am not a silent poet 