The Body of Christ melts in your mouth
not in your hand.

Jesus would be better served as milk chocolate
laced with expensive shiraz
and dusted with dehydrated lake trout

They sell cheap centimeters of his tunic on Ebay
and people twitter about him sixteen times a minute:

Jesus is with me
Jesus is with them
Jesus is my co-pilot
Jesus is my co-signer

And so on

If Jesus were to die tonight
Fox News would be on it
raising questions about his alleged affair with Mary Magdalene

Mormons would start digging holes into hills
until there were hills no more
just odd Seussian organic monoliths
allegedly in the shape of the late Jesus Christ

Then they would retire to the dairy store for ice cream
conversing like big geese about the infinite potential of Resurrection

Whooshay poses as one of them
replete with white shirt and crisply ironed tie
licking blue moon out of a waffle cone
saying:

If he doesn’t come back in this dimension
surely he will return in one of the others

Elder Johnson writes it all down
wonders what his chances of being an apostle are
and wiggles closer and closer to Whooshay

We need more ice cream
he confides
a halo of industrial smoke rising behind his head
from the chocolate factory the next town over

A moment of enlightenment falls upon all 227 of them
and for once they forget about Jesus
and obsess about delicious ice cream flavors instead

Bacon fish meat
is the stuff of lore in the mountains

I saw the Captain Lou Albano look-alike
savoring one tiny bite after the other
from his corner table outside Beggar’s

His beard dusted with tumeric
eyes googly with intense reflection
on how wonderful it must have tasted

I sat three tables down
asked for what he was having
but the hunched old lady leaned in
and said that he had gotten the only bacon fish of the day

I ordered blackened Tilapia instead
and mused over purple soda as the sun bent into an oval
and dug into the blue hills

If it’s not your heart it’s your guts
he explained all white jacket all narcotic halo
all soft and tolerable

I counted the skyscraper pens in his pocket
remarked he might need a protector someday

He glanced up from his PDA hybrid strangely furrowed
as if I meant bodyguard or Jesus or something
so I adjusted my bed up slow mechanical agony and patience
slurring NO NO for your jacket the ink in your fourteen pens
laughing deep and exasperated and hoping the crotchety Czech nurse
would swoop around the periwinkle/ cobalt curtain with more dope

Smirking he brought me back around to where he seriously needed me:

In order to heal the hole in the gut
the sanctity of the heart must to be monitored and managed
a fine artful balance of anticoagulation and antibiotics

I could only think what’s the difference between acting
with your heart or your gut anyways

There were all of these once unnoticed vericose veins across my stomach and they were bleeding profusely while we exited the house that may or may not have been in Europe so I squeezed out my stomach like a wet gym towel and the sky outside was black with heavy clouds but there was a glistening high-definition purple city off in the distance, bursting through the air, Chicago maybe, and suddenly the pine trees were on fire, and the ground was flooded, and Zoe was gone, no there she was, in a cheap boat docked by the back porch, sleeping.

Where was there to go? I went inside and tried to keep this giant squishy Yoda head in the living room bookshelf from sliding but the thing wouldn’t stay still, and even though I thought the shelf was level this squishy head, which belonged to Mila’s father, wouldn’t sit still. I just shut the glass door and let it be.

They all go from geniuses to freaks
emerging from brilliant white closets
to faces painted white
they all go from geniuses to freaks

They pop out of nowhere like stray bubbles
and linger like steel memories around our heads
always there to hold and caress
when we need to feed, to talk about the others
stray bubbles shot from an imaginary flesh cannon

They recklessly dangle their babies from balconies
and dance on limousines at their own child molestation trials
and under the knife they squeeze themselves tight
allowing their souls to recklessly dangle

They die and drop from the stratosphere
to a thud that shakes the earth
and a huge splash of teardrop
as they drop straight from the stratosphere

There’s a guy leaning up against the streetlamp
smoking a blue cigarette and sporting a brown fedora
looking directly at me as if he knew me from somewhere
some annoyed questions projecting ripples from his aging brow
and I could sense his wavering agitation
like he knew me but his memory was failing him

There’s this panic attack I’m having- I say to him
and he just stares at me skeptically smoking that blue square
do you work for Fat Jimmy? he asks in a lazy drawl

Who the hell is Fat Jimmy- I think
watching his fedora unfold into a small spotted hawk
and the street peel away like a candy wrapper
revealing my fizzling brain underneath the whole block
neighborhood town state country earth universe
infinitely asleep
graciously awake

You know
sometimes you live out your nightmares
and the whole thing seems unreal
because it is very, very real
like the time I had a hole in my head
just below and behind my left ear
and with supernatural ability I peered into the hole
at my juicy, fizzling brain
and with a detached finger I massaged the tunnel of bone
that dipped for a foot until it reached that gelatinous thing
and I was so, so fascinated
and so terribly disgusted
and so damned mystified
by the hole

You know
they really can put holes into you
and I’m shirtless looking down at my abdomen
at a little red flower
glistening under the florescent bulbs in my bathroom
and I’m suddenly remembering the dreams
about the bewildering holes
as if I had them last night
and the worst part of me wonders what it would feel like
to gently insert my finger into the stoma
and feel around a bit
but I just don’t seem to have the will
or sense of in-dream security
to do it

For this is very, very real.

Using a cosmic mail-order fillet knife
they ran off with my sigmoid colon
and my hard drive

One bitter week
where the sun blasted orange through the blinds
and I couldn’t see the rays even if I asked politely

They took away the moon craters
infesting my only organic dumpster
and used twenty one metal staples to hide the evidence

I tried to tell the story
but the words wouldn’t boot

Every letter I produced for years
gone
the Whooshay snatched his belongings
and sizzled out through the electric doorway

It’s tempting to talk to myself
or converse with the alien poking his meaty head
out of the left side of my abdomen
instead I just cover him with a solid plastic bag
and wait for him to cough up the truth

I ask them
what are you trying to tell me?
and they never answer
except the with the occasional nod of the head
and shuffle of the loafers
out of the room

He trudged home from work
and stuffed his magic under the couch
where soon a moldy rainbow would emerge
spreading cocaine and kool-aid sprinkles
across the avocado shag carpet

He sat there under the influence of darvocet dreams
lacing together words with boogers and spit
while his children experimented with motion sensors
and his wife re-invented herself in lavender dresses

He watched supermarkets explode in pink flames
vanity dolls and mini plastic pets impaling innocent people
and he pissed cheap coffee into a tin can and sipped it intently
thinking: If I punish myself today
there will be no room for anybody else to hurt me tomorrow

He slapped the top of the television when it flickered
and marveled as the hounds ran off with the rabbit ears
while gently through the digital fuzz a bearded mouth
threatened to kill him and his family in the name of God

He took his money and ripped it with geometric precision
stuffing tiny shreds of green into his ears and nose and mouth
eventually forgetting to breathe before they could get to him
bursting at the seams with cash and sucralose residue

You found salvation deep within a goldenrod oven
they recited prayers at four hundred degrees
they sprinkled savory things over your sick body
and injected you with aloe and sour milk

You baked reverentially with ketchup slathered over your brain

They smiled as your neurons sizzled
your brain stem twitched
and your skin peeled back like onion on a baked sidewalk

You look so delicious in a recession era
when the robots fail and all we have left
is Mother in a red checkered apron
beaming a transcendental white smile
as she carries you to a table made of clouds