MY JESUS

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.

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