The Saint of Linden Boulevard, South Jamaica Queens (1995)

Let's workshop this bitch!

The Saint of Linden Boulevard, South Jamaica Queens (1995) 

1

Reverend Williams hops down from the pulpit,
inaugurating a hushed a cappella from the choir. 
“He is wooorthyyy. Oh yes. He is wooorthyyy.” 
Left right, he palms this forehead, that forehead.  
Touched parishioners slump over, slow and soft 
as the song, as the negligible touch. The choir 
falls silent and the black bestower of the Ghost 
pauses, Sho’nuff hands—rigid to the tips—midair,
sweat yet to deliver all over his face the grease
still slicking down his hair. Tension builds until
from nowhere the choir snaps to life, full scream 
in the tambourine-smacking bpm of allegrissimo.
“The Lord—uh, uh, uh—be blessin’ me.
I say the Lord—uh, uh, uh—be blessin’ me.”
Walls rocked by pounding feet and orgasmic cries
of “Je-sus,” palms reach for heaven as the line loops.
“I say the Lord—uh, uh, uh—be blessin’ me.”

With matched firepower, the Reverend zigzags 
down the aisle, baggy-arms bellowing, palming 
entire faces in such fury that those out of reach 
faint too. The organist, like a poisoned cat, writhes
on his bench—face congested and contorted, neck
swollen with rippling muscles and sinews, feet living 
their own lives (as if perhaps in a nightmare). “Came 
on them!”, Williams yells. “The Holy Ghost came
on them!” Wigs and hats fly. “Slain in the spirit!”
One man—high yellow, thin mustache, relaxer mullet
of El DeBarge—does the b-boy Third Rail, reduced 
to but the babbling mouthpiece of the juggernaut 
passing through. At last Williams clutches your face,
his fingers seizuring as if the agent behind them  
were battling a loin-sourced lust to crush its object.
You fall out, you crumble, like some clubbed beast.
But once again it is on purpose, of your own accord.

2

Special you are in this storefront tabernacle. You fear 
you are a worship fraud, faking (as you do) being felled
by an alien force. It has been this way since you first came
for surrender. Unable to stomach the midfall calculations 
to avoid bumping into objects, the mirrors nauseate you.
They show one—peeking—who waits for the others,
moaning, to recover before rising in dizziness feigned. 

What you do not see is how such worry testifies
to your devotion. Your faith that others do not drop
intentionally, that they really do need smelling salts
for revival, speaks to your team spirit, your fidelity
to the fellowship. Your faith that the rest are sincere,
shows your premise of operation to be that all this 
is real, that true experiences are being had here!

What you do not want to see is that your angle 
is the problem. When the others attempt to avoid 
landing on a child while falling, they do not think
to question if this jives with their being possessed
by that third person of the Trinity. In Truth, most 
do not even find themselves doing anything at all. 
They are just doing. That is the real difference. 

You come in here square, cerebral, alienated 
from the zone. They too perform. But that nagging
whisper of “You know you’re just performing”
does not pester them. That explains the fluidity
of their play-acting. You might have convinced 
some, but your manner reveals that you fail to be 
all in, reflecting as it does the distraction within.

*This poem first appeared in Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood (2022)