Jesus Shows Off His Wounds

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.”