Life Sentence

Jesus
will not let me die.
Every time I try,
He stuffs my spirit
back into my body
like straw;
I am a scarecrow
crucified on my post
with a lifetime
hanging sentence.
The crows ignore me.
He sews the soul
onto the bottoms
of my feet
like Peter Pan's shadow.
The audience ignores me.
Being alive
is a tedious role.
I would much rather
be playing Scrabble.

I have a story
I like to tell.
It is not pretty,
but it gets attention.

Chatper one:
Once upon a time,
I am choking.
Along comes Jesus
like a holy ambulance.
Jesus knows
the Heimlich maneuver,
and CPR,
and many other
useful tricks
(I imagine that is how
He got to be God's son).
Needless to say,
I do not stay dead
for long.

In the other chapters
I am dying, too.
I drown,
I sallow pills,
I wreck my car,
I open my wrists.
Always, always,
Jesus waltzes in
like the dancing doctor
in his white, flowing
surgical gown.
He kisses my forehead
like the Madonna.
He touches me
with glowing E.T. fingers.
Hallelujah,
I am healed.

Jesus mocks my death.
He turns my suicides
into sit-coms.
He turns my funeral
into a game show.
I am a third rate actor
working for canned laughter
long after my contract
should have expired.
I am the contestant
who never wins
the jackpot.

July 26, 1989
Background art created by Brandi Gabrielle Hubiak