Hank found Jesus.
And I, my power to sleep the night.
If not, I suffered long the anguish of a bed wetter.
That virus gives the viral a living,
In the numb of night, I buried the evidence,
And in doing so, I saw,
The nostrils of Lucifer, behind a fogged window pane,
Above mine, I traced little horns. And below that, a wry smile.
That night, Hank died, it was glorious.
Sic transit gloria mundi, I say.
Die, this need to touch myself there.
Die, this need to celebrate small deadly wins.
Hank’s glory swallowed up a fat auditorium,
Fingers came to trace his scars,
White folks with black prying,
Black folks, with white regards.
Then came the very useless, the church folk.
Rolling down the broad shoulders of life,
Eating sand, saving little hatreds in cardboard boxes,
Chasing down champions with red-letter 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, yet.
Hank stole that boulevard off Sunset Street for his memorial,
A flag waved, with a wheel crest for the Rotary Club of LA,
And a single magnolia at the base of an electric pole.
The people caroled, If only Hank were here.
He would have loved himself a good caroling.
She took to a front pew, the perfect widow,
Choking on a famous secret, with me by her side.
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 pedestal of holy water shivered, as the choir screamed.
As the sliver of sun provoked his dead eyes to part open.
Hank left her as sweat and snorts,
His powerful semen just cleansed that warm vagina and trepid thighs,
She smelled of his love.
After that with her fingers in her mouth, she hurried her death,
Those nights, proving her worship, she flushed her trinkets down the toilet,
Those nights, hunting her missing tooth with a candle, she found old buttons he set loose.
That night, she hacked, spat in his tea,
We smiled in candlelight. A small win. He saw.
Hank licked her good,
On head, under feet,
Her calves, buttocks, breasts.
But nothing for her angel face.
He was excellent, a real man.
After that, I sat on his lap,
He dared me, If I ever hit a woman for myself, he would skin me alive.
Some women need it. Not all. Some. He said.
Another night, the passing thick aroma of a great man,
Profiting knuckles pummeled a small bride into academic duty,
As all the lights were killed.
The leather belt went lash-lash,
The neighbors went hush-hush.
Folded behind the punched-in door,
She called to me, and I, to the blue-sky birdie.
She rallied for a dead god, her heroes silent as night,
And then, she dug up the spirit to tarry one more night.
When I saw, her mouth wrapped his violent throbbing penis,
Her razor-sharp fingers scratched and bled the poison from her thighs.
And when she ventured to declare her death, her pain,
With large ringed fingers, he seized her.
And she was cured in the morning.
Perhaps I dreamed this,
With tears caking eyelids on the morrow.
My dream, a deadly woodland;
And she, in it, a blue-sky birdie.
In my dreams, I made him chase, out of breath, in the woods.
His fingers reaching, never quite clasping 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, a great dreamer,
His finest work will rent the hearts of nations.
In his sleep, in my sleep,
I left a knife in Hank’s jugular,
It went in, stayed in,
A twig thru wet river sand,
His dark blood, warm, joyful.
And she watched, fearful and 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.