Half a Cup of Charity

I prefer Jesus flesh to Jesus fish
although every August in Austin
its Jesus water they hand out to
homeless vets and artists under the bypass.

Marty tells me “commit the sins,”
David tells me “confess your goodness.”

Just don’t jolt too hard
down the see-saw.
Gotta push it up
before you get let down
(balance, unlikely
down by the access road
cardboard cathedral, littered
with piss and yesterday’s biscuits.)

Jesus tease us, untie your robe. Why
are you always half dead half re-arisen
in the sexy statues? Subligaculum
riding low, just a hint of hip
but never pubes. Come on God knows you must
have grown a few between Christmas and Easter
year zero one two.

Sister Mercy arrives with chilled Evian
for the one-legged brothers and
a three-nippled whore, 105 degrees
closer to hell with all of us,
one slip knot away from the dangling
line of damnation.

Coming to a town near you

Eventually
they all stop trying to figure me and
fix my tangles, pointless really, yet
I have grown accustomed to their brushes
and combs and thick conditioning compliments
as fingers work scalp to neck to shoulder.

But it seemed your teeth
had the right spacing
your fingers, the right rhythm as you
brushed the bangs from my eyes
as you trimmed me close
opened me for exploration, tossle
and smooth, tussle and soothe I wonder
did you move to the next chair
because my knots were too many
too tight too involved for your attention
or did you have me figured out day one?
Was it all so
predictable?

I have heard
we all follow
a pattern
we follow a design
you know us, the broken
the damaged–
click any channel they will tell you
our axis our serial number our
orbit and rotation
biochemical pathways
on a collision course.
Everyone loves
to watch the sideshow
as it passes through.

Writer’s Almanac

She is driving four children here and there,
from the shameful return of late library books,
to the grocery store for garbanzo beans, seedless
cucumbers, corn tortillas. She stows children
and bags in their proper compartments, ignoring
all complaints as she turns the radio from Disney to NPR. There,
there it is, Garrison Keiler’s soothing voice,
a heavy quilt. Fireside calm

lulls her as he reads on and on
the polished verse of the laureates. They carry her
up and down carefully constructed hills of inflection,
over lanyards and pears, across the desert with nomadic tribes
into summer moons of contagious self-reflection.

It is times like these
Garrison Keiler slips his velvet tongue
into my narration
he softens my tone
buttons my blouse
censors the “mother-fuckers”
adds indefinite articles
and even punctuates the hell out of it
into something nearly APF approved
of course I can never remember the word
order the tone the scent of soap he is gone

As she stops at a traffic light her hands
relax their grip on the the wheel
she inhales the first moment of
stillness in her day and knows
it must be our turn soo

Velvet Talks Too

Poke (your fingers in) my eyes
and I will open (wide) my jaws.
Back-bend over
head-band falls (to the carpet
don’t let me forget that later)
throat opens
gag reflex dis-
abled with proper
angular adjustment.

Poke (your fingers in)
my navel disengage locking
ratchet pull my (golden rooted synthetic)
hair to desired length
finger twist back button,
no scissors necessary.

Pull my (please save me) string
so speaketh we all “Hi
I’m Chrissy. I have
a secret.”

Soft squeeze (oh my god)
my shoulders vice grip knees
open, finger whisper (wider thank you)
and (do as we) please.