I had a very strange
dream, a vision, to which I am no stranger
(I was a young man named Toby
in the sixties.
I ate an entire novel made of bound
sheets of acid), but
this one was different.
It was an immaculate visit.
I was having a conversation
with that man named Jesus.
You know, that guy.
Yeah, well, he and I got to talkin',
and he was telling me
about how the eighties were his lowest years,
spent as a hockey player (as
evidenced by the hair he wears
in every effigy, much to his chagrin, he says),
going through many bruised hookers and cocaine.
A bad scene.
He said to me, with booming voice,
And I didn’t reply,
For my name had long escaped my head;
though, I’m sure it wasn’t that.
When he repeated the name with ex
asperation (I could tell that he was using it
as a segue into a story or something of the like), I
finally replied with
a small grunt.
… No, I don’t have any coke.”
He also spake
of his father...
What was his name, again?
Vlad? Leif? Something like that.
He told me of how his father sent
him to us as a white man, for in Nazareth,
there were few men of this colour.
He could dominate them all! However,
the White Romans thought the same,
in much larger numbers; and right onto
those crossed stakes he went,
inchers through his hands and feet.
How he wished to smite Vlad.
Or Leif. Or whatever.
An analyzation; a propagation; an exclamation; a declaration; a conversation; a desecration; a proclamation of truth. Peace and love.