I met Jesus on the street, preaching apocalypse, if he could only auction off a date.
Trying to be heard over rape culture rallies held outside the old gallery, he called them sinners, called them sluts; take this pamphlet, ladies, no man deserves a wife with the balls to wear that haircut.
I’m touched, knowing I may stand beside humanity’s savior, and the messiah complex is strong. Later, I see him sleeping by a pond, Walkman on, Rapture bleeding in his ear.
I’m solicited by dime bags, people asking if I can spare a drag or a dollar, eyed by the drags, the gangsters and blue collars; the suits and the mall rats, as one mother cries out at a different child’s laugh. I jaywalk this city’s past at every crosswalk, where no futures were fought for but everything bought.
I’ve knocked shoulders with elites and
the foot soldiers,
From the gorgeous to
we’re sculptors of
majors in all its
idiosyncrasies and side
But I’ll spare you
I’m much more sane than Jesus in the street.