Last I Heard, He Found Jesus

One Sunday,
Hank found heaven.
And I, my power to sleep the night,
Or suffer long the anguish of a bed wetter.
The virus gives the viral a living,
In the numb of night,
Away lies the evidence buried,
The nostrils of Lucifer traced on a fogged window pane,
Die, this need to touch myself there.

On Monday,
Hank swallowed a fat auditorium,
Fingers came to trace his scars,
White folks with black prying,
The black, with white regards.
Then came the very useless,
Rolling down the broad shoulders of life,
Eating sand, saving little hatreds in cardboard boxes,
Chasing champions in red bibles.
The old has-beens came too,
And some, sinking in the invalid of youth.
Then the Mayor and his new cucaracha wife,
The intestines of St. Thomas Cathedral of the Apostle twisted,
Her best collection day.

On Tuesday,
Hank stole a boulevard off Sunset in his memorial,
A wheel crest for the Rotary Club of LA,
And a single magnolia at the base of an electric pole.
The people caroled, If Hank were there.
He would have loved himself a refrain.

On Wednesday,
She took to a pew, the perfect widow,
Choking on a famous secret.
The magic of barbiturates in her veins.
A black kite in the brushwood,
Now that Hank, the only way to love,
Smelled slightly in a box.
As with many here, if you did not know Hank,
Tears fell for a gone-too-sooner.
The dead smiled in the wreathe portrait,
A tripod by the holy water pedestal shivered.
And the sun provoked his dead eyes to open.

On Thursday,
Hank left her as sweat and snorts,
His powerful semen cleansed that warm vagina and thighs,
She smelled of love.
With fingers in mouth, she hurried her death,
That night, proving her worship, she flushed her trinkets down the toilet,
That night, hunting her missing tooth, she found a candle.
That night, she hacked, spat in his tea,
We smiled. A small win. He saw.
Hank licked her good,
On head, under feet,
Her calves, buttocks, breasts.
But nothing for the face.
He was excellent, a real man.
After, he dared me to ever hit another woman for myself.
Some women need it. Not all. Some. Said Hank.
That night, the passing thick aroma of a man great,
Profiting knuckles pummeled a small bride into academic duty,
As all the lights were killed.
The leather belt went lash-lash,
Stuck behind the punched-in door,
She called to me, and I, to the blue sky birdie.
She routed a dead god, her hero silent as night,
And then, she dug up the spirit to tarry one night.

On Friday,
When I saw, her mouth wrapped his throbbing penis,
Her fingers bled the poison from her thighs.
And when she ventured to declare her death,
Her pain with large ringed fingers, he seized.
And she was cured in the morning.
Perhaps I dreamed this bit,
With tears caking eyelids on the morrow.
My dream, a deadly woodland;
And she, a blue sky birdie.
I made him chase, out of breath in the woods.
His fingers, never quite making her sky blue wings,
As with many here,
If you did not know Hank,
He raised two men,
One with little regard for small brides,
Another, with ignorance all the same.
His finest work will rent the hearts of nations.

On Saturday,
In his sleep, in my sleep,
I left a knife in Hank’s jugular,
It went in, stayed in,
A twig thru river sand,
His blood, warm and joyful.
And she watched, grateful
And would with this choking secret,
Find her watery grave.
As with many here,
if you did not know Hank,
Last I heard, he found Jesus.
I am his finest work, I am both of them,
Proud sons of Hank.