Stories from either side of Jesus

——Says Eric,
Hard work I know nothing about.
And in the night of my coming out
I drank wholly deep of wine,
was my newer blood, the kind
that finds its way out quietly,
much like me from sobriety
and this slaughterhouse piety
wherein exercise is to breathe
what talk is to greeting.
The friends, they balk, they grow
larger than the horns they fold
over my seat, like tantrums,
growing and growing bold.
At this point I put away my tongue
into my back pocket where someone
will find it later, decayed and old,
but will hold it to theirs perhaps
if I find a suitor in this mass
of liars, glancers, and biceps
that fly from what I dream of
onto the circle of my throat and choke
me dead when I succumb to living,
the living that I stand sixteen hours
everyday and have but a fraction left
to lay my head down with sideways
and convince my thoughts they see men
who are real, and pale as desert day.

——Reflects Thomas,
But a boy dreams of what a man does
when he runs to that oven in the sun
so far away, miles and horizons
from where he stoops under his stature,
the stature that longs to be shortened
underneath the figure of another.
As he learns of rejection, he suffers
his bereft fantasies of getting there
one day, as though a night ever came
that didn’t leave him bent the same,
worse, or waking up in a terror
when he reads the hour has not passed,
nor he through the test of holding on
to the tremor in his head that mirrors
the slow shake of dead babes gone
that choke themselves out come dawn.
That shout. That hard jerk he knows about.


~ by Jeremy on January 10, 2011.

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