Look on yonder craggy Christ
arms up and bleeding upon the cross
with waning day twinkling through
and flanked by two thieves
the one repentant the other silent–
perhaps thoughtful, perhaps asleep.

Look up towards skinny little
begger dirty ‘neath hasty wreath
of knotted thorns that cut
and trace out a glaring path
atop the holy head.

Listen for the rustle of the
moving robes and the sobs
of a stray friend or two:
“Father forgive them,
they know not what they do.”
“Father, my father,
why have you forsaken me?”

Listen for the Truth
in the agony bent through
the common sweltering pain
the leather sandals
grit lining the souls
momma bawls to watch
baby boy die twisted
and broken way up
against the disappearing day
on a cross next to
some false prophet.

Who woke Jesus up?
Who said,
“Boy, get on up!
You ain’t done yet!
Get your sorry skinny
ass out there
try again!”

And what could Jesus,
fresh from the horrors
of flailed flesh
human abandonment
God’s silence
and the devil’s
chores criss-crossing
infinite caverns
trodding ruthlessly
on failed souls–
spiritual losers
who maybe yes maybe no
amounted to something
on the salty sands
but down here just reek
and writhe in loserness,
what could Jesus then think,
feel, do, as the coach
lovepatted him back into the sunlight.

No I can’t guess,
no I can’t accept,
no I can’t dare,
no I can’t see
what kind of a world we’ve built between the lot of us.