Wielding Jesus

40 days.
40 nights.
40 years.

​

Emptiness 

as far as she can see and she can’t see far. 

It may be an arid planet in an infinite universe,

but its orbit swings inside an echo box of a room with a 

lock.

 

A leather-strapped traveler’s trunk

airy with clumps 

hair black

at the end,

hair gray 

at the root,

nestle emptiness in 

gin-drained bottles 

that bely satisfaction.

 

Sating.

 

Alcohol, as it appears, 

is sating,

is opulent;

perilous;

alluring;

however, oddly desiccant
once one moves past 

the notion of a slaking quaff.

 

Arid planets in lonely orbit

are unequal and equivalent,

different name, same game:

 

We know they 

shoot like a shot,

like a pinball, 

a tipsy flow 

this way then stop.  

Flow that way then stop.

 

Mercury is a bastard. 

He retrogrades all over love

for eternity, like a woman 

flooring an F-150,

run him over, 

bones, skull no obstruction,

back and forth, 

back and forth,

back and forth,

back and forth,

a million times pi for good measure.

 

Obstruction. 

 

Love, as it appears, 

is an obstruction,

is opulent;

perilous;

alluring;

however, oddly inert
once one moves past 

the notion of a selfless succulence.

 

In the face of it

she is powerless

to provoke.

Make it 

do, 

To provoke,

make it 

want. 

 

Unconditional?

Selfless?

“Bwa ha ha!” follows her flow 

this way

then stop.

Flow that way 

then stop.

 

“Manage your expectations.”
That’s what momma said. So!

 

“What did you expect from the men you fucked?”
“What did you expect from the men you let fuck you?”

“What did you expect from the men you fucked after they unconditionally fucked other women?”

 

She - wan and cheery, quiet - 

thought he slept

 

finally. 

In a cooled and fresh 

Night forest green oasis, 

the twinkling celestial parasol - Venus and  her lovers -

strewed the shimmer of a proper kindness, a proper warmth, a proper meeting of affection and arousal

atop her recollection of the parched and rare fuckings of their meld, their modification, the mechanics of negotiating her refusals:

 

He touched her cheek once, 

She thought 

she remembered

the gingerly, back-fingered slide of her lover’s (fucker’s) hesitant touch: 

 

Tenderness?

 

Perhaps a mis-remembrance.  

 

No. Tenderness.

 

Tenderness? 

 

But 

in her  sanctuary coral, dusky, fig honeyed, dew cloaked, 

 

he awakened.  

 

He bookmarked:

 

Incest.

Machine fuckers.

Pussy.

Girl-on-Girl

Threeways.

Toys.

Group sex.

Dogs.

Cunt.

Rape.

Anal, baby,

don’t worry,

I can force it in if it won’t go in easy, you’ll like that.

 

Manage that, momma.

 

Momma, how much love does it take 

to feel loved enough 

in her life

on a bone-dry ball 

hurtling, whirling, crashing through time:

 

40 years?

A million times pi?

 

If she was loved
she would be powerful.

 

This she knows for the Bible tells her so. 

 

What would Jesus do?  Well!

 

He wouldn’t tell her to manage her expectations,

for one. For two,
he wouldn’t negotiate her ass to his advantage,

for three, 

he’d keep his hands off the family dog,

for God’s sake, four, he’d stoke her cheek

with a back-fingered slide and speak of 

love divine,

all loves exceling, 

joy of heaven, 

to earth come down.  

 

You see, 

Jesus is inertial.

 

He keeps going

and going

and going.

While the rest prepare their descent,

the devoted maintain His trajectory.

 

She wonders, 

Is there anything to be said for momentum?

 

Inertial.

 

Devotion, as it appears,

is inertial,

is opulent;

perilous;

alluring;

however, oddly cautious
once one moves past 

the notion of an infinite vow.

 

Arid planets in lonely orbit

know well mindless piety,

an archaic idea of 

sacred foreverness

and apostolic fidelity: 

 

Arid planets keep going 

and going

and going, like

Mars the jerk,

that charlatan,

that burnished

dirty fighter who 

vows fervid heat, 

teases restorative waters,

and whispers a captivation: 

 

Life is here.

 

His sweltering breath sears her cheek:

You are not alone.

 

After spinning ellipses

40 years or

a million times pi,

she is fairly certain

Mars understands

the difference between

a God of War and 

a Jesus of Nazareth.  

 

God in heaven, 

after 40 years or a million times pi

he’d be stupid if he didn’t.

But she is also quite sure

Mars would never admit to such knowledge, for 

-- as previously mentioned --

Mars is a jerk

 

Jesus is love.

Let every kindred, every tribe 

on this terrestrial ball, 

to him all majesty ascribe, 

and crown him Lord of all.