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my heart is a minnow

Jesus, there must have been a reason why
your followers edited out eighteen years of your life.
You must been too human. You probably sang
down the streets of Bethlehem with your friends,
alcohol and vomit a crusted glaze on brown sandaled feet,
voice a righteous drunken smear on your immaculate record.
Yeah I can see why they had to pretend
you never experienced flaw. Ignored
the years when you doubted your holiness,
rocking back and forth in your lover’s arms
asking: why me? Why this fated providence of sacrifice?
Jesus when you finally came to accept it
did you really believe? Messiah I beseech you,
tell me: are you really our saving grace?
Were the crusades sanctioned by your smile?
Do your hands ever ache sometimes
under the burden of all those bodies piled high?
Jesus Christ what I really want to know
is how did you leave your family?
Tell me, how did you turn from your wife’s garnet sea tears?
Did you run from the safety of her arms
so fast your feet left cross-sized tracks
in their wake? Did you forget your children
like my father forgot us? Like luggage
full of winter clothes and love letters
he never bothered to pick up?  
The Sunday after my father left
I stared at a cathedrals rendition of your glory,
gaunt body strung up like high tops sneakers
snagged on electrical wiring
and it didn’t mean what it was supposed to.
I wasn’t shaken to my knees in quest for absolution
or forgiveness. Jesus, you were just another adversary,
another man I couldn’t trust.
Only you were held so high up I had to break the fists
stacked in my spine just to look at you.
And I will never bend for another man like that again.
You are just another father, lord,
trying to divine the future from the tidal pools
I carry in my palms. If you are only looking
for the right answer, pluck the sea glass minnows
of doubt from within my ribcage and set them swimming
past my toes. You of all people have the strength
to remove the doubt from self, shift the boulder from the mouth
of the cavern and rise again. Instead you hang
solemn from grey walls, the watermark
over the family portrait of a savior
who never came home.

22 Mar 07

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look to the Church of the Psion

dont look for clues in movies
 — Mongrol

very nice poem, tragicbubble.

only thing, why the repetition of the name?
it was the only thing that bothered me. without the repetition, the nature of understated-ness might just be a lot stronger...? no?
 — varun

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