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Poem

Known as Jesús he was.
Known to be abnormally alive.
A gregarious thinly woven figure
in any overly large space.
The city contained him
kept him buzzing under its glass eyelids.

He said he had Jesus wounds.
Would lift up his T, show them to strangers;
most nodded and wandered away
shaking their heads.

To me they looked like
9mm entrance wounds, the scars were deep.

‘Spear” he said pointing to his side.
“Nails” he said indicating his arms.
Maybe it was sun burn,
but the crown of his head
was ringed by a red rust.

He carried a wooden crucifix,
used it as a walking stick.
His performance art
was awkwardly perfect.
He stood forth
in any thin skinned light,
a grizzled messiah
with a wide disabling grin.
He knew you from way back,
made you a false memory
in his personal book
of resurrection tales.

He figured me for a poet.
He knew stuff.
Sitting together
in the shade of a dusty tree
I showed him a few.
“Too many words,"
he said
"you need to grow some holiness,
get dead first."

My Nine was by my bed stand
Next day I emptied it
and went looking for him on the street.
He wasn’t hard to find,
he was showing a perfect stranger
his stigmata, his pitch to sell some weed.

I went up to him and shot myself
in front of his eyes.
It was pure theater.

He didn’t even flinch.

Just said. “Holy cow bro,
now you’re crucified,
just like me.”

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