Rambling to Jesus

I am cold today, old today feel the bitter sting as frost crack-spreads across a pane of glass. I am enveloped, wrapped in a wet towel in mid autumn, having thought swimming was a good idea. Gusts pale through vacant door ways and we realize why window treatments matter. Who were we to not make these realizations at such a young age, an age of profound ignorance and egotism. We prayed to the isms to release us from the tender veil and safety harness we masked as witches grip our parents held strong too. Why did we ever doubt, because others had had experiences, others had been duped, been beat, been left for dead in a dank ravine, swimming with shopping carts and dead rats. Why do our minds coat the warped angst riddled folly of youth and create doubt in our elders, and splendor and joy in our peers. It is our shakespearian rant that echoes the halls of Beowulf and rattles grendel’s aching ear; it a plague on both our houses, it is to be or it is not to be it is double, double, toil and trouble, it is our stewing in the cauldron of what if. We are vacant to our steps strode seemingly sleep driven and deprived of intention and destination. Rolling stones on our own, destination unknown, completely alone, Dr Robert ramble through space like an echo in space that transcends walls in an anti gravitational flux, beaming as a squared imprisonment vacuum sucked and ever fading to nowhere. What are my chances of hitting atmospheric pressures and to rapidly descend after my free space float. Can we get a mathematician to establish variables to relate to a seemingly non right brained person, can he explanate and convolute, can he parabola and convex my existence, can I be graphed and measured, can I be squeezed inside a TI-82. Can I escape from that TI-82? Where would I be inside that gray screen, slanted and covered, plastic emblem of Texas Instruments guarding my movements as a watch dog of the 21st century. The plastic grips, thin strips of rubber so tempting, glued on the back rolling back from their stuckness as gritty nails of adolescent hands peel underneath them, the instruments, these calculation machines, mini computers, being used as a bowling shoe only no disinfectant, sharing calculators like we share Kick Balls, like we share the water fountain with no backsies no cutsies. The life water draining, pissing like an STD riddled member might in small spurts, our lips contacting that never cleaned metal and our coughs engulfing that porcelain back drop, mimicking the home of our churches Virgin Mary, oh how we bowed daily to that sacred religious fountain bursting the tears of Christ to satisfy our paining muscles, to draw water from the lips and deposit it between calves and thighs, swelling and pulsating chest, rise and fall rise and fall. I have neglected the use of the comma for the rumble rant of a sader speaker of a rabbinical ranting stupor, of a religious inconvocation of the 10th apostle, that Jesus was busy on Leno, and we had to settle for the second rate act of third party description of Jesus blowing up the scene at that wedding. We all thrust our elbows to our knees, fist to chin, skirting sleep and feigning interest. Oh how we feigned. The 10th apostle appeared enamored at our seeming attention and rambled, recited, quoted scripture and at one point I laughed one of those laughs that you laugh when you don’t know why you are laughing, and stumble into another laugh at the realization of your original uncalled for laugh. I got more applause from my arrant disregard for stage and performer, and thought, but only briefly, as these thoughts expire like milk in the fridge, that I might sub in for the misanthrope, former devotee and shadow boxer for the almighty. But like thoughts, those that no one ever sees, ever conjures in color, ever hears or knows exist, it dissipates, fades, fumbles itself down the drain to be lost amidst the other unused unexpressed un bridled and ultimately unsuitable for conversation thoughts. You cannot deny their existence, oh holier than though, want to be Jesus, cause you would have ascended pre crucifixion, the mystery of faith and the bafflement of someone who could have done it all. How many times did the devil descend Jesus in tow, Jesus cowering as he entered the mighty Beelzebub’s basement apartment littered with half drunk Miller Genuine Draft bottles, long necks special ordered, and hid his face slightly, but did it as if to not do it, knowing he was doing it. Face still visible slightly, and his beard a dead give away, Jesus saw John the Baptist, twisting a cap off a freshly acquired home brew. A nod and then a turn to the farthest corner of this now expansive bon fire rager, there is Judice, tempting a volumptuous mary Magdalene, teasing her shirt at the belly and rolling his finger upward below her bust. Jesus, guzzling now in haste and sweating in his realization that his father knows all and will surely be waiting up for him, begins to relax. He relaxes as we do night before a daunting day, seemingly forgetting, or drowning, or purging the thoughts of the next morning’s existence right down the toilet. After his third, being a light weight, arm drapped, one around old spiked tail, the other around the resident whore, he wiggles his nose, I Dream Of Jeanie Style, and a disco ball descends from the ceiling, “I just want to dance!” he proclaims, the floor lighting seventies dance party style. All at once, he pulls his ear and the floor is gone, people hovering over emptiness who had just amassed on this glorious flashing oasis, starring blankly ahead and floating much like wily coyote would. IN a brief, half blink, or upon two half seconds, the floor returns and jesus, smirking ear to ear says “JK motherf&ckers, J f&cking K!”

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