A Cargo of Green Hearts
not a Christian, probably never was one, I don't think of Jesus much at all
except when my eyes graze an image or crucifix, which always depicts
a hoax Jesus that could not have existed, mistakenly Aryan-visaged
for a middle-easterner
but if I do think of him, putting aside the question--man or son-of-god
or god partitioned into man or "son of man" as he called himself--
I imagine him on a isolated beach of average brown sand, no one else
around, the corner of his robes--how silly
to accept the dogma that he wore robes--caught by a breeze, his long
hair caught by the same as if the wind could not help but reach out
and touch him tentatively the way it is allowed to touch flowers and
with that gaze so benevolent
it burns right through me to the horizon fixing on something
none of us can see, perhaps a boat bobbing in a storm, perhaps
lightning licking an unruly wave perhaps a wheel within
a turning wheel. I wonder what he is thinking
of as he walks and why it is that he must be alone in a deserted
place and not Main Street Hong Kong or New York carrying
a lantern between us and all our guns and money, throwing
open the doors of our 100-story
temples where we tremble and pretend to speak in tongues.
but no, he goes where no one is looking, arrives without
a bus ticket or notice, invisible as a homeless man, carrying the basket
of fish that no one knows how to eat.
he looks out at the sea. the sun contemplates setting but waits.
there is always something lonely about him and I am not afraid
to say so. I have never seen him sit down or get to where it is
he is going and wonder
if he would exist at all without those worn sandals, the way
we could not exist without heartbeats. we rarely notice
our heartbeats, by-the-way, which go on ticking and ticking
until they don't. it's a fact: listening, turning
your entire being into an ear isn't easy unless the desolation
has filled you like a sail and the shore has been swept by the great
broom into undecipherable patterns that ask but refuse to
tell. perhaps that is why I see him only
there, among the sand like powdered bone and the tired voices of gulls
where, maybe, the temporary tide of my heart sounds surprising as the
breach of a whale, and like him I wonder the whole question
what in this wide earth the heart is here for.
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