a secret meeting wrote the new religion's laws
on a gilded coast. a numbered account,
the first true act of worship in a glass temple.
a plane takes off towards a constellation of islands
that exist on paper. the cayman's blue deep
hides a thousand hollow mountains of digital gold.

a british virgin offers her cloak of silence
for a whispered fee. nassau's bright banks hold
the weight of a thousand sins in sterile, cold vaults.
panama's canal, a vein of flowing money,
linking two dark seas. this is the insulation,
the sacred circuitry of the divine.

the final approach, the island grows on the horizon,
a sharp, private tooth. the dock is not wood
but a tongue of concrete, waiting to swallow the guests.
the temple's great door is a smile of perfect teeth
and absolute power. the altar is not stone
but a bed, under a dome painted with false stars.

the sacrament done. the god is pleased with the offering,
innocence is spent. the pilgrimage ends.
the god is not found, but made by the footsteps of the damned.
and at the heart, little st. james,
a kingdom of hidden pain, the god’s inner court.

now, the temple is a yacht.
a zeus in a pink polo shirt.
while iris, inanna, hella, frigg, and gaia
remain naked.