The Electric Benediction of Sister Halo-Jane

She came riding in on a tambourine,

clothed in static and kerosene,

with a veil made of Sunday receipts

and hands that glowed like Pentecost heat.

They called her Halo-Jane the Unbaptized Saint,

though no one knew if she preached or just fainted.

She opened her mouth and out came flies

dressed like angels with burnt-out eyes.

“Children,” she howled, “don’t trust your clocks.

Time is a liar wrapped in a box.

Don’t trust your pews, your pulpits, your choir

I’ve seen God sleeping inside a tire.”

They tried to stone her with stale communion,

but she fed them wine through the wires of ruin.

She wore shoes made of paperbacks from hell

and sang hymns to the sound of a broken doorbell.

---

Oh mercy train, don’t stop for me—

I’m riding shotgun with entropy.

We’re heading north, where the sinners freeze

and thaw in time for prophecy.

---

Halo-Jane once kissed a crucifix clown

whose sermons came with a nervous breakdown.

She scribbled the Gospel on the backs of bills

and planted mustard seeds in electric drills.

She said, “The Kingdom’s near if you squint real hard

and pretend the landlord is not in charge.”

The sky turned plaid, the moon turned red,

and the preacher’s robe caught fire instead.

Then Jane, sweet Jane, she took her chair

and floated three inches above despair.

---

Sing, my shadow! Cry, my blood!

Let Revelation rise like flood.

The streets are cracked, the bells are tired,

but still the Spirit’s drunk and wired.

---

She passed a child with a cassette for a heart

and told him, “The hymn begins when you fall apart.”

He clicked and whirred, then sang in reverse:

“Amen ain’t holy if you don't rehearse.”

A man with no eyes sold her a dove

made of teeth and bubblegum love.

She blew it a kiss that turned to ash

and danced to the rhythm of a car crash.

And somewhere between the silence and scream,

a choir of nails sang her dream:

that Heaven is loud and Hell is shy

and grace walks backward when it wants to cry.

---

Take my bones, dear Gospel train,

grind them down into holy rain.

Baptize the rats, the clocks, the dead

and feed the Eucharist to dread.

---

Then Halo-Jane vanished with the dawn,

her halo left behind on a neon pawn.

The city sighed, the sky forgot,

and all we had was what we’re not.

But on cracked sidewalks, the weeds still hum

the song she sang before she was gone

A gospel made of static and steam,

a liturgy from a garbage dream.