And he sleeps
Amongst the fisherman,
And the cab drivers,
And he's with me at midnight
Where the devil's hour draws
Closer to the lone sidewalk
And we are all ghosts
And I'm on the edge
Of a proverbial cliff and he's
There with me.
And he is no longer
Jesus of the Chapel
But of the slum dwellers,
Of the motocycle bikers,
Of the sodomites mentioned in
Howl and thought to
Roam the nights unsatiated.
That God.
The one I'm looking for.
The savior with an armsling
And an extensive knowledge
Of pornography,
Every position every crack
Every twist and turn.
That God
Who baptized needles pinned
Freshly to tattoos
And made theologians
Out of tax collectors
And Jesus
Whose nails
Were used to tattoo
The words "King" grisly
On his forehead
And he was chiseled
On a cross,
Not hung.
Spurs on his feet licked
Like lapdogs by tongues
Hungry still for love,
Laying at the foot of the
Memory Jesus,
Crying,
All adulterers and profaners
And cheaters and liars all,
Who laugh
And sneer and snipe
In disbelief at his memory.
Ours.
At his clean, pierced hand
Slowly turning to ash
At the weight of our
Ink, face turning to bulletholes
As the chests decay
Into some kind of
Gang war amalgamation,
Tongues swollen,
Organs numb,
Penis pierced with rose thorns
And rubbed with alcohol
And lubricant and
Sharp fingernails.
And we weep
As we are transfigured in return,
Each wound a closing scar.