Jesus and the Deep Fat Fryer
With little, the many will feed.
Thank God, we got the wine.
Jesus brought a deep fat fryer
to the party, where everybody’s
done working, call it resting, talking
about getting by and the high
cost of living: whose body
in the honest bread is
sending visions; it
feeds the mind
(the soul follows)
out of its hibernating
wilderness
into its limitlessness –
Jesus’s in the kitchen,
kickin’ it,
like you do
loving up a meal.
A kind lady with
love in her eyes
is playing guitar,
and nobody’s got no hang ups,
but somehow everybody’s cool.
There will be only truthful kisses tonight,
and tomorrow and tomorrow – whatever
we have sits like a bubble between
our lips – so, baby, maybe, it’s
least remarkable of all miracles,
complicated but real:
no need to be afraid.
There really is enough
to feed every gnawing hunger,
soothe all that festers, bless
and lesson. The party’s over.
Jesus and his lady went home
with the fryer, leaving oil traces
and lots of leftovers to go round.
Read about Jesus Toast.
September part 3
Forgot all about luck,
and the long line of cars
like sexy women
dog-earing our existence
saying, I am here, and I do this,
and damn the odds, whatever they are:
Autumn stretches sunny arms
smells a little of pine though none are there –
strange one singing in the stair bounces
the sound like a split and a scratch – .
Sir in suit will do as he declares:
drawing up the shoulders,
pops the neck,
pulling it back – expanding that
long
moment
when you
let
the shot
go.
September part 2
There’s something in the name, but I never met a bad one.
Most people need their chorus in their head –
their flock of angels who will comment and condemn,
occasionally lend the loving voices they’re replacing.
I hear you ain’t got none, or was that a myth?
How much of you is real? If it’s all impossible,
your logic like a steel skull and utter lack of hesitation
in the presence of articulate consideration – goddamn, godbless
you make it look so easy. Midnight shuffle, soft clucking
like ladies’ nails on a wooden desk, slatted blinds, the little fan
stirs the air above the bed that across the sea is promising the future.
Legacy and honor. What if you just don’t want to go? It’s a permanent trip,
and there are no phone calls. In the end all travelers ask why,
but we are all travelers. The eldest among us are still babies:
Everybody is afraid.
Everybody feels alone sometimes.
Everybody just needs to love and be loved in return.
At the end of the day, gathering up our lesson books, I think
we head off into a brilliant summer and wait for our mates
from other schools on other seasons to join us. Jesus,
there’s still nothing that makes it easy, is there?
But in the question is the answer and the
only reason for prayer:
health, happiness, peace and love,
for everybody, please.
September untitled
Runner on the water going fast
describes arcs and perfect math
with fluidity – a cup of tea,
and everybody wants to know
where to rest your head with security – could it be – ?
Everything we give away seems to stay inside the dome.
There’s songs of hope, songs of home – and anymore
than razors won’t cut it. You gotta
watch for the change
delicately – I wonder
if it’s all I’ll ever see,
but dreams of green and traveling
convince me if begrudgingly
to let the scenery pass;
I find my way back
to the places I’ve always been.
mindofvero 