Jesus Maybe

How he longed to play a Jesus,
slip inside that saintly skin
and realign the stars divine.
Even sittin’ heroin eyes,
he’d yearn to feed the multitudes,
and garner capitulation.

A blue eyed Christ, bald and antsy,
and stretched upon his burning cross,
the dream for him was vague at best
as long as there were water walks
and demons running into pigs.

I was willing to surrender,
become his bone-bag miracle,
brought back from dead and dying
reanimate myself again,
but funny how, as time went by,
he didn’t do the same.

And here am I, a follower,
still resurrecting longing.
Sitting lanky Lotus,
we’d suck the night in full,
tower in our glowing heaven
with devils in our singeing lungs.

A little fall of reason,
and he’d shift from black to white,
dancing Jesus syndrome
would re-awake his skin.

How he longed to play a Jesus,
and I his dime-store Christ.