He bears no gifts – not of genetics, not of friendship,
not of hope or happiness or hell or (sadly) kindness –
He is at most, only (and certainly at least) himself.

He carries the circumstance of his birth around
like a white mouse in a life-long lab with cats drawn
with black sharpies on the sterile white walls

He lifts nothing – not hand, not voice, not heart,
not breast or barbell or barber or (most probably) burn victim –
the effort is a symbol of God (the unprovable thing he refuses to believe)

Oh, somewhere pigs are oinking, grunting, twisting in the mud
diving down into their unappealing unappetizing un… human
food. He lifts his head, bearing the burden of a smile carried to fruition.

The pig, he does not care.

hands clean (very very clean) and words
too (very very) he (being quite)
does not (ever) offend – i (wishing
to be more) like him (with dirty
hands & truth be told words) smile
– though (I do not) walking a woman
(old and broken) across the street
seems a bit much. he (on knees
begs) me (standing in the back
watching) – redemption like the gold(en cow)
falls (between us)

Tell me of chocolate. Junior mints. Peanutbutter and other sweet things
stinging, singing bringing nothing but joy to my tongue as they cling

You call that Easter Morning, I call it politics and dead bodies build
filled willed up to the heavens up to cemetery grassy and softly hilled

Tell me of beer. Guiness and chocolate stouts, lagers and pilsners and ales
wails and tales and holy grails of missed parties and forgotten details

You call that Good Friday, I call it philosophy as long dead languages fade
played grayed words displayed, then sung – all of us slung o’er damacles blade

Tell me of faith. Chocolate robes on large men and short men and monks
hunks and chunks and thoughts unthunk left to rot in Godless trunks

You call it Holy Saturday, I call it meditation as I nibble jelly beans
in jeans. greens (obscene) yellows, pinks, never whites – if you know what I mean.