#stanza form

[static-electric-dreams]

Oh to have the cursed task To kill the son of God, To be the end of all the years Of service, thirty-odd. To be a dozenth of the fold Yet fated to betray; To lust for silver more than He Who seeks to guide the way. Imagine waiting, on that night, To kiss the Savior’s cheek And showing all your holy friends The eternity you seek. And yet, you sit, that fateful night Of that, the Supper Last, As He who teaches, He who loves Deems you iconoclast. You argue for the show, of course, Although you know it’s true; He says someone will cause His death, And His eyes look at you. Imagine being Pilate, then, Asleep at three am While hoards of Jewish protesters Demand you kill this man. Imagine trying to be fair, To let this man go free; Imagine how they clamor now To nail him to a tree. You wash your hands of this charade, As you return to bed So centuries of liturgies Can curse your Roman head. The prophecy must come to pass For any chance of hope-- The Christ fulfills His from the cross, And Judas, from his rope.

Judas’s Lament

[static-electric-dreams]

Warm blood under Soft skin, Cut thin with the thorns From the crown on my head. Fingers, pruny, like raisins Stolen from the kitchen, Dragging over blemishes, Feeling scar tissue. Eyes, like lakes, tears like waves Break over eyelashes, running rivers And stopping at a dam of a blank face-- A damn blank face. Feet standing on tile, on rock, On shifting sand, Watching red raindrops feed the soil. Watching old sins soil the clean. A mouth like a venus flytrap, A trap, a Trap Taking so much effort to open and close just once That it’s hardly worth the effort without prey, Without praying for an answer. A heart beating under the wrong chest, A lantern resting in the wrong chest, Hidden behind old clothes never worn, Hidden behind new clothes worn with caution. A voice with a timbre like a flute, A voice like a timber in the forest--fallen, seldom heard. A voice like a recording on a channel, Like a mechanized distortion. Head, hands, feet, side. Eyes closed, arms open wide.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

[static-electric-dreams]

Sometimes I think about The cold, Sunday afternoon When I put on your coat of many colors (The one with the toys in the pockets, Where I kept a chapstick and a piece Of glass) and you put on your coat, With the brooch on the lapel, And we went to the store. We walked down the aisles and Reminisced (you remember the Cupcakes we bought, and turned them Into cake balls?  You remember the Medicine I bought you after that night?) While we sought our prize: A red and yellow box of double Frozen popsicles. We chose the brightest ones, To match the coat. We drove back and parked Close to the building, Watching grey clouds sail across grey skies. We rolled down the windows (Though it was too cold for it) And you turned on your music, Playing our favorite songs As we ate popsicles in the cold.

A Red and Yellow Box