The Sacrifice Poem by Terence Winch

The crowd exploded. The room cheered.
The moon made its rulings stick. The stick
struck against the necessity of argument.
The argument held the impossibility of salvation
outside the delights of the great forest of long hair.

My wife and I danced on a stack of fresh tortillas.
We moved on to the river of supply boats and obscene
counter attacks in new underwear and clothing.
False articles of faith fogged the new dawn.
Survivors dumped the headline on the dark lawn.