The sun doesn’t rise on the Son’s risen day. It’s unrolled,
as low as a hobo’s sidewalk head, as coffee creatures queue
for to-go carriers to survive salvation. Enjoy day-to-day disasters
but not Easter Sunday, when sunrise service sloths inhale redeemed
fair trade beans as a communist parade passes, turning blood into soil,
Cesar Chavez lives again in the miracle of memory:
men live forever in a Spanish inquisition’s street serenade.
Easter egged children eat air conditioning, hold belt loops, ask why some
sleep outside on stones. From a combat boot pillow, a man asks for a bus:
“Fifty cents?” He is in need of a Baptismal bath. With brown teeth, knuckled-
down children, the saved say, We give to our church. Our God, not humanity.
What is a life but a death for our Lord?
We have our drug, pray you’ll find yours.
Our self-portraits are warning labels on cigarette packets.
Bones burn as white wedding chapels afire, alone among desert dunes;
as smoke stains heaven’s floorboards, we use angel’s halos as toilet bowls.
There is more than deviancy in our beautified bodies and empty glasses.
We’re the boys and girls next door—you can hear our fucking
through walls. When it stops, we write about yesterday
for tomorrow’s sake because we won’t remember tonight.
And you’ll hate us, because we’ll love you for what you don’t--
We want your dull bones, chilled blood; we’ll bring you fire as
we move mountains to drain oceans. We don’t sleep, but we dream
for all who live to sleep. For them, we see mankind’s monumental end.
We can’t tell you how to live—all writers write is how to live lost.
All we want isn’t fifteen-minutes of fame, we seek failure:
to write false starts, to stand at the sidelines sucking Gatorade
as people play atop a lop-sided slant believing all the world is level.
Say speaking up is the devil, we’ll call it our nightly hobby.
Earth dry gulps but breathes a sigh of relief as we banish paper asteroids
to waste bins, but dies during billion dollar summer blockbusters.
Earth lives for Big Gulps and telling art to shut the fuck up! It’s trying
to sleep. But we keep the bed hot, sheets sweaty, the swirled world burning.
Dance through tunes of a hopeless world, impressed only when
shoes are strained of toenails, broken ankles, and when ginormous
pulled groins are censored. We clap for final productions only;
we reserve cheers, like gold, for anything but hopeful failures:
uncooked golden nuggets of bulbous teenage bellies.
The smell of travel bagged chips collapses in seat cracks as
the collected audience shifts to complain to phone screens
so they won’t look up to see strobe-lit dazzle: tasseled sequin shame
as form-fitting as latex gloves over gasping human heads.
There are no sweat beads, but they wear never-weary smiles.
To work would be to stop smiling, and that’s all they have.
There is nothing noble in so many things, certainly bad dancing.
They are each perpetual failures in slippers moving in missteps with misshapen
thick hips before anyone screams that dancing is a bad decision.
The audience does not connect eyes, same as any first time,
ensuring at least one of us is having a good time. Young dazzled girls
should be anywhere else, on top of anything but a stage:
under their first boyfriend, under headphones, under the influence