I spent an afternoon gluing Jesus
back on the cross, then I made myself
a grilled cheese sandwich.
Elmer’s or Lock-tite?
Gorilla Glue or Super?
Let’s go Roman.
Do you really want to go back up there, Dude?
A priest, a rabbi, and a minister
walked up to Calvary.
They ate the light bulb.
what a mess.
the first action figure.
I just want to pin that Holy Spirit down.
They don’t make nails like they used to,
crosses like they used to.
Glues are stronger than ever.
Jesus—plural. Loosed from the cross,
In the absence of Supergluing Time,
we have Faith and its uncertain price.
Buy one, get one free.
The dog happily carried off the body
between his teeth. He’d been eyeing
it for years up there.
I want to carry the body of Christ
in my mouth like a dog.
If you think that’s crazy,
let me tell you about communion.
You know all about communion.
I’ve stood there, waiting in a silent line
for that little round wafer.
What if they at least shaped it into paper dolls.
What if they at least used tomato juice.
Or blood, real blood.
Three places to glue.
The bare cross left with half-hands, half-feet.
I spread my arms and waited.
Row, row your boat.
I can’t get that out of my head.
I can’t get the glue off my fingers.
Now that I’ve opened the tube
I want to glue everything down.
Perhaps then God finally emerges.
Carpenter or fisherman?
Sommelier or guidance counselor?
Baker or extreme athlete?
Life is but a dream.
I feel the pain of a sliver.
I trade the dog a Milk-Bone
for the Son of God.
I am writing the Bible of Humpty Dumpty—
more complicated than you imagine—
what came first?
Teeth marks could not be helped.
We weren’t allowed to chew the host.
If you don’t chew flesh, you choke.
Is God on my side
or am I on his side?
If they passed out sleeping pills at communion
I’d still be in line, my hands folded
I remember baby Jesus.
He liked that weird bubble gum, the blue kind.
He hung out at the park.
He had a bike that levitated
till somebody stole it while he was taking a leak.
If you don’t stop and look close, believing
is a piece of chocolate cake.
When I was 33, I should have been happier,
not scribbling personalized epistles to death.
Jesus couldn’t’ stop at thirteen,
and neither could I.
Jesus at thirteen—did they lock him
in a closet like my parents did with me?
I had a wet dream about standing
next to Jesus at a urinal.
Jesus lived happily ever after.
The sandwich was delicious.
The dog was inconsolable.
Gently down the stream—
the only prayer I know.