Jesus Propositions Judas with Salvation
We ought to cut
each other from our skin-tethers—
quit this arithmetic
and flash of blue.
We could have just as easily been violet fireworks,
but are not,
not even with the potential of spontaneous combustion.
The star compounds in us
are explosives disarmed
by the wet of our bodies
thrashing with desire.
Hot July, Jesus says, Stop struggling against me and give us a kiss.
The Mother of Invention
1820, Joseph Smith is 14 years-old
at the Second Great Awakening.
The thick ropes of evangelical voices are drawn tight over heaven
to tether God to the ground.
Too many tongues on fire to hear
a pre-teen in the kitchen saying, Dear
Father, make me
a tuna-fish sandwich. He faints
hits his head on the table.
I saw an angel. He had wings like a shark’s mouth
and spoke like Shakespeare.
Will someone please
pour me a glass of milk?
Faith as Seen on YouTube
I. Contemporary Gnostics
kissing more than speaking
words. His fellow Gnostic spokes-
model transitions into frame—her face an orb
of light dimmed to a long-legged brunette. Mention
the Knights of Templar and his eyes flash with Hollywood
potential. Imagined rescue
—she’s tied to a chair by the arms of her own cardigan—
obviously the work of papist conspirators. She’ll
say, truth will be sought by the few—rebels
moaning softly in University Libraries.
There is more than just this body,
she’ll say. Oh yes, he’ll
say, more. more.
II. Because I’ve Heard it Before
I’m not converted. Joseph Smith went down—
with his six shooters firing—from a window
for something similar to gnosis. He knew
it was over. Angry mob with ropes
noosed. He wanted life more
than salvation. Reached
for the blue hands
of God before
Something more (like gravity) is out there. A martyr is
born from the earth of Missouri; like a turnip. Belief.
Like harvest. I’m sown and born in Utah. I never asked
for this religion, never asked for gravity. A turnip isn’t
choosey—it will grow anywhere—with its ability to
prevent famine. His was a con, but such a necessary con.
do” to 33
the gig was up. As
he came down, a promise
for love manifested itself—as
light turned to flesh in a mild root.
I won’t be a fool-bride but the pains of
starvation are a mother’s hands in my soil
digging to save her children from the absence
of heavens feast.
III. Broadcast Yourself
Originally I wrote tit instead of lip when describing the sexual tension between young
missionaries. Their knowing beyond knowing like lovers hanging from
cords of ecstasy—refusing to come down, makes my
eyes hatch locust from staring too long at
their lights shining from my laptop.
feet will / won’t
thing the night before Judas died, he paid some mouth to call him child.
Tell the ground to come for me—he asked the prostitute. Tell the world I meant no
harm. I don’t know why love is deemed legitimate for some and not others. I tell you
Judas loved Jesus enough to die for him. The hanging body: a pornographic image. I
tell you, there are those of us who must fall; our faith an all-in wager. We jump praying: