In my life, on the road to Calvary,
bouncing a basketball painted like Earth,
I came across a mad old wanderer
who offered me a Moody Blues album,
and gazed up the Hill to a hoop of thorns.
He said, “The water was turned into wine
and back next morning; they were dehydrated,
and He passed around effervescent tabs of B.”
He wore a Tee, hexagram 56,
and moved away, fading, an ancient ghost.
I climbed the stony path to Golgotha
and stood quietly at the free throw line.
They say a white man can’t jump, but I did --
slammed Earth with a punctured fizz through God’s head.