The Poisoner’s Song   The pride of man is wickedness — so says Saint Paul. The churchmen claim to know the mind of God, they tell us what will be, they raise the chalice to the light, insist the blind will see, the lame will walk — what do they know of His ways? God is not the sun, forever yoked to the sky, an ox ploughing row by straight, predictable row through the heavens — no, the truth is the fire unseen, the truth arises in the dark, the truth is treachery, the truth is everything you fear, it lurks immanent in the bread, a serpent’s tooth in the wine of life and music and preachers. They preach and prattle. I do God’s work.     © Michael Fleming Westminster West, Vermont August 2014