American Jesus--Resurrection in Joy

He’s beautiful, isn’t he? There’s so much
in a person’s eyes. You have eyes
like Egyptians. Unexpected but welcome.
Like cowboys on acid. I can’t see
my eyes. Black eyes. Dark endless eyes,
I’m told. There’s always one aspect
of this you can’t see. One turn.
The one who’s looking back into you,
and back into the surface like moonlight,
the gulf waving in the dark,
inviting you in to see what you are
missing. The mystery. Tenderness.
Disarmed, I dance and fight the current,
muscles strain. They say, when you’re drowning,
relax and it will take you and leave you
up the sand a ways. Walk past the lovers
in the dunes. Keep your head and eyes
moving, not listening to what’s spoken,
but watching how they react to what
you give them. Give them little truth
with many lies. Why do we always come
to this kitchen? We kick so hard
we knock the pilots out. The way is lost
for a while. We wait and move in the dark.
Wait for contact. Would you lead or follow?
Yes. You should. Just touch her
and you will know which way to fall.
She goes limp in my eyes, relaxing
like the disobedience in the street. Refusing
to be carried away easily. My dead weight.
I brace myself as not to bruise her more.
She will entertain you, if you will
let her shout. We hunt loud and late. Like sirens
spreading into the bush for hidden lovers.
She sits at the desk and scissors paper
into different shapes of hearts. Our bursts
cancel each other into silence. Just listening
to the waving of naked and blue. The broken
cross remains behind us. My remains,
at who the black sparrow will stare
until convention becomes unconventional.
Paper is everything. And the body is there
on top. The flame burns invisible to us.
Let’s trap it in the bottle like a message
cast out to just about all those left.