Is a gay black man
Who loves women and Muslims and Jews.
My Jesus got off
That slivered cross some
Two thousand years ago, rolled away
His stone and went back to smoking
Behind the Salvation Army thrift store.
Sometimes my Jesus is a Dick
Like Richard Nixon,
“Don’t do as I do. Do as I say.”
Grab your boot straps and get along
Little Commies. My Jesus
Thinks Christmas is an obscene
Consumer orgy. If he believed in Hell,
That’s where the richest
Assholes would be.
My Jesus swears
That churches are heartless as nails
Or stone, pinched claws
Determined to line out wild souls.
My Jesus believes
In freedom, balloons, and hypocrisy
Some of the time. He walks
The talk and like my sister
Falls down a lot, but
My Jesus gets up again
Because he’s a man,
And getting up is what men love to do.
My Jesus has balls
Enough to call bullshit
On all that whack he’s credited for—
Like walking on water
And rising from the dead.
My Jesus knows the power of story,
He’s seen it deployed with guns
And grins again and again.
My Jesus dreams we’ll grow
Tired of killing each other,
Grow tired of feeling afraid
And learn to live gently
Until we retire, until
We return to our subatomic selves.
My Jesus knows
The kingdom of Heaven
Is inside my head
Next door to the serfdom of Hell.
And sometimes some days
He rides my melancholy tsunami
Over steeples and freeways,
Funerals and white sales,
Hurtling bruised and broken
Onto stinking mudflats, bankrupt
As the American Dream,
Tears blurring the blue moons
Of his eyes, the stars in my night
Sky—bright rimmed puddles, dark
Rings of light. My Jesus
Celebrates the mornings I wake
Up. We both imagine he dies
With me. My Jesus doesn’t pretend
To know what will happen.
He’s just happy to be. My Jesus
Is the king of vulnerability—
He’s all about love and service,
Responsibility, for him
There’s no judgment day.