The fun house floors tilted over the water and I wondered how anything did not drown. Mom whined to get attention and it worked. Dad used his child labor and laughed when it was rubbed in his face. How Nixonian. How weird. We crossed time and space and crossed time and space in the crossing. Crosses were there but if they really were there they were just out of sight. Over the hill. Blacked out. A knight in mourning for the weak. I can see how that would be because that was how things were. Send in the Calvary. Three at a time. Hang em’ high, poke them in the side, and say they are done. This is the feast of ages that starved us while we waited for truth.
The Fool on the Hill let the fools put him there. He spoke without writing and accumulated without selling. His touch was his reach and his stories he told. He waited two sleeps, Easter-egged in a borrowed tomb, then shiny pennied, Ladies first. Thorns and roses and a walk to Emmaus. Roads traveled on Saturday nights that made us late for church. Sleeping Sundays. Rosey Mondays. Ruby Tuesdays. Thank Anyone It’s Friday. Holy Yesterday, Batman. He died a fractioned life when they split his infinitive. He promised a dozen roses and they promised more. “I Amway.” He crossed the T’s and dotted our eyes forever. They nailed the one that nailed it. End game. That’s a wrap. Some think he is hanging around the masses. The masses slept through one too many sure men. Time to pay the piper. This erection. That erection. Resurrection. Round and round we go. No more bets, please. Smoke ‘em, if you got ‘em. Bear your own crosses. There’s plenty to go around.
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