Humblebrag begging
from the destitution
of your forty million dollar mansion.
Your panhandle is gold-plated
and your soul is a grotesque map of
While poets possess silver tongues,
and millionaires silver spoons,
you are possessed of a silver
with which to pick the pockets of your followers
in one breath
and, in the next,
stab at the nonbelievers and apostates and heretics,
like any ready devil with his pitchfork.
Listen to me:
prosperity gospels impoverish morals.
Faith is fraud at its core,
just as a prostitute is lust at her core,
and bankers are greed,
and judges wrath,
thieves envy,
slave owners sloth,
preachers pride,
gourmands gluttony,
and celebrities vanity.
And so you are the Bingo! of
the Seven Deadly Sins.
You are the celebrity judge
who banks on his slaves
to fall for his preachy thievery, passing
your sentence upon the rest of the world
for not providing the money with which you prostitute your
naif flock
and feed your Mammonic appetite.
You think yourself a prophet, but see
only a burning money tree, a
pyramid scheme dealing in
“prosperity” which knows no
measurable metric of return,
and no reality.
You are not Moses come again
to lead your people to
the Promised Land; you
are the pharaoh enslaving
your desperate flock to your
Ponzi payout.
You worship Mammon
and excuse yourself
as you build his temple
by sitting Jesus in his own little place
in that conman’s playground:
over in the corner,
next to the ATM,
working the gift shop
and selling absolutions.
Millionaire preacher man
begging for alms like a
whore proffering her
profession; only she has
something of substance to offer,
whereas you offer nothing
but to broadcast yourself so shamelessly
like the Whore of Babylon
or like a conman amidst
his invisible flea circus
and carnival of souls.
But I suppose you have a greater mercy
than Christ ever did, for he
forcefully reprimanded the money-changers
whereas you embrace them as valuable friends.
So much heart, almost as large as
your bank account.
The Bible says to forswear from partaking
of pork, for it is filthy, yet you
readily partake of other people’s piggy banks.
“Crack them open,” you say,
“in the name of Christ;
thou reward awaiteth thee in Heaven.
Thread the needle, slaves,
and stitch with it my
camel hair Persian rug,
for it lieth in such a fabrication
my own salvation
through the eye of that
wanton needle.”