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Stupid Dream # 9.

Posted to Poetry




Stupid Dream # 9.


My Jesus has a little motorized fan that he keeps in his pocket for occasions such as this.
He wears lightly colored clothes so as no to get too warm,
and a large sun-hat to cover his head.
His skin is usually oily,
both in color and in texture.
He melts sometimes,
so we try to keep him cool.
He also wears sunglasses to look cool,
though he really doesn't need them.

The transistor radio he caries keeps him informed.
That’s what he tells us, anyway,
but that thing hasn’t had any batteries in it in years.

He walks slowly.
Just slow enough to lead you to believe that there’s nowhere to go.
Which usually there isn't.
Still I hurry so as to get there before the others.
Even if there's nothing there,
if there is really nowhere to go,
I need to be the first to know that.

He doesn't call us ‘disciples’ and we don't call him ‘savior’.
It's a comfortable arrangement but still he sits at the head of the table.
‘We’ve got to keep up appearances’ he says.

I watch his back in the evenings,
to protect him.
Everyone's out to get him,
which he doesn't mind,
'Everyone I can see!' he says.
'I know who they are. When no one is out to get me that's when I'll worry. No one could be anywhere.'
He's weird sometimes with his cryptic yammering.
One day though, we both know I'll be caught off my guard
and he'll be slain.
We both know this full well because we've spoken about it.
When the most ideal time would be for me to be caught unawares,
so he can become the martyr that he must?
It's an unsettling knowledge
More so now because we both feel the time is soon.
We'll miss each other,
that's for sure,
tears will be shed.
In the end though,
it's the only thing that's right.

I'm gonna sleep on my feet again tonight.
It's me and the pistol again tonight.