In A Cruci-Fix: Un-poem#2

Its so strange,
that a cross, when flat on the ground,
causes him to look like a man
stretching after an indulgent night of sweet snoring sleep-
thighs, knees, and chest preparing to leave warm breathing wood
and the affection grip of nails
to touch down on eclipsed ground, and then walk to the kitchen at Nazereth
to get a cup of coffee in the dark.

Or maybe I read it wrong.
Maybe its just the same him, surrounded by all the other
hymns down the ages, murmuring while beadily collecting his slow sap-like seeping blood
in tiny cannisters of gold, silver-
him. Who was about to be myrrh-dered.
And who, for just a minute, decided to remember
the skin he was born in.
The skin he sweated, bathed, scratched, rubbed and reached out to lepers with...
did he need to take that final piss?
Before his goddish latin,
did he rage human like me, muttering-
Bastards. Its just a piss. At least in the shadow of that other cross,
Away from the women, and these bloody cannisters...

Bound or nailed, depending on which year MGM studios are in...
its the most horrifying thing, really.
A struggling sacrifice.
A gasped-out not yet.
That vulgar writhing and twisting of flesh, and bitten down lip.
The cannisters are nervously fingered.
The mob waits. Shifting.
A pigeon flutters, startled- a sudden latin curse. A helmet wiped, chuckles inspite of
the blood, the writhing muttering man.

I like this cross this way.
Less of an offering, more of a final sad word
For all those who are nailed,
in the name of a Higher Cause
and submit-
But burn, yelling warrior cries, mother's names, and highest scores
As they rise invisible,
against the flaming white light, of a sun sliding free
of an old madman's prophecy.
Just in time to heat the kettle for afternoon tea.

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Much thanks to Pranav for reminding me of my word, and that in spite of all, the writing's still sacred. I promise an oxygen tank next time I go quiet : )