Junkie Christ
cuts lines of immolation
snorts his own ashes
because he is forever burning
his hair and his skin and his words
and his blood until the time comes
as it always does, that his blood
is not enough and there is nothing
left but to snort or to scatter, savor
or surrender, consume or be
consumed
and Junkie Christ is no man
of the people
- Jim Coppoc
(added 05.07.09)
because we are his friends, we wake
for e. and l.
the body in its absence
we tell the stories and sing old songs
we pour whiskey on the floorboards and cry for him
this is not the first time we have waked a man who is not dead
only legless, half his spine broken, unable to speak
or move anything but his fingers and tongue
the medics found him almost immediately
stopped the loss of blood
inserted the IV
but his heart was stayed by the war
there was no blood circulating
and his mind was destroyed
from lack of oxygen
this is the second time this year someone has told this story
this is the second family to inherit a breathing corpse
- Jim Coppoc
(added 05.07.09)
Acharit HaYamim
Says YHWH to the prophet, Go Daniel, for the things are closed up and sealed until the end time.
I.
This is not the end.
This is not the way it was supposed to end.
I am out of my mind with possibilities with futures with lives which I have only dreamed into being.
I am out of my mind with tent walls and tree shadows with spiders and their likeness with darkness in every corner but here.
I am out of my mind with here, with her, with whoever her is today. I am out of my mind with love.
Love, I am out of my mind. I have come for you at last. You are not a damsel after all and I am not a knight.
Love, you are siren and banshee, strychnine in this morning’s tea. You have come for me in Nebraska hotel rooms and Seattle apartments and beneath posters of Kerouac, you have come for me in the summer of ’95, have laid down for me and given me a son. Love, you have never come for me. You have left me each time not even a note on the dresser.
You brought me a drink once and forgot to charge me, Love. I had just taken the stage, so you left it where I was sitting.
You don’t return my phonecalls. I still owe you for the drink.
Love, I am out of my mind but it’s me not you.
Love, it is you.
II.
The covenant is broken, the curse is upon us.
This is not a global problem. This is you and me and the things we may or may not have said and the child we made and the shattering like a mirror and the disappearance of the image on the ground silver backing.
The curse is upon us, and the curse is us. This is the part about Daniel, the prophecy given but not explained. Go, Daniel, put these dreams away. I give you a vision of the end of days, but no key to explain it.
I have seen the end of days, and you are there, Love. You and I and the vessel you choose.
We are together, Love—you, me and the other. We are sagging and wrinkled and laughing. We are drinking the strychnine tea of the human body and watching with great interest our decline. We have come so far, only to see the prophecy was not a prophecy after all, but instead the natural state, our lives its disturbance.
Love, there is an obedience to you that is below the mortal span, and above it too. Love you are the mortal span, the natural state, the Messianic era. You teach us the Christ and the Phoenix so we can see destruction. You teach us rebirth.
I have laid you and confused you for the other, Love, the body is weak. I am naked now, alone in my bed, only pen and paper to cover me. I write your name on a fig leaf to hide my embarrassment.
Love, I use your name too much.
III.
Love, it is over.
I have come for you and you have come for me and we have come so far together, but now there is no body across from me. Love, I am alone. These are not the end of days, Love, these are the days you have given me. Love, you have given me nothing. Love, you have given me everything. Love, you have given your all to me and it is not enough. It is never enough. Love, you don’t stick to me like you should. Love, I am leaving. I am still alone. Love, I am dying. I have always been dying. It is the mortal condition.
Love, this is goodbye. Or not goodbye. Love, this is the end of days. Love, this is the beginning.
Love, this is the beginning.
Love, this is the beginning.
Love, this is the end.
- Jim Coppoc
(featured in the poetry forum 05.07.09)
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