"Blue-Eyed Jesus, a Love Poem" by Giovanni Dania

Blue-Eyed Jesus, a Love Poem

And your whisperéd pledges of love eternal
Sound like low-down chords on a broken piano;--
(Such are the ways of men, you may think,
But that only goes to show
How little you know)
I cry outrage through my chordless voicebox, standard-issue,
And pull my hair out by the handfuls.

I am the cause of a traffic jam,
Sitting quietly, studying my brain
On the driver-side window,
Observing the grey trails, the red streaks.
(And people are out there, staring and wondering.
Will they never go away?)
I have the presence of mind to ponder:
Won't they ever go away?

I remember swimming, long ago,
Looking like any fish, or chicken,
Looking like any turtle
Who is but two weeks old.
Oh, I looked like any joey
What is only two weeks old.
I swam, I sucked my thumb,
I ate my twin.

Yes, I may have lived in sin
When I was a gym teacher.
I admit I could have lived in sin
When I was teaching gym.
The kids learned more than sit-ups,
And I... I....--
And, yes, I was a woman, back then.

And now, taking ice-cold showers,
I regain my superhero powers.

We are older now, and none the wiser.
We kiss;-- I grimace--
You mistake it for a smile, and smile back:--
I cringe. And my only thought is:
Time is indeed the thief of lovely flesh.

And you cry, you pray to Jesus, or Amon Ra, or Allah, whoever,
Knowing tomorrow you'll be just as fucked.
(Such are the ways of God, you may think,
But that only goes to show
What little you know
Of patriarchal religions)--
You marinate your cunt in vinegar,
Assert a strange macho femeninity.
The beauty is there,--
Was there,--
Is lost in a moment's passing.

I died in you, and arose
To die once more: I'd rather sustain
Th'infernal heat up here than
The arid atmosphere of Dives' hell.
The beauty was here;--
You are a tasteless mockery of your former self.

You showed little tact, no great discretion
During afternoon tea, you wore pantaloons
In front of the service, you were
Nearly sinful. There were, I remember
Quite clearly, a thousand Chewbaccas in pumps
At our wedding, my love, you sick bitch.

I explode, I am sane,
I live and breathe in a puppet kingdom,
Everyone fingerspells France,
Everyone says it smells like France.
I laugh in the cold shower,
Insisting, "This ain't France!"

Strange are the ways of rich men:
When was the point a moot one?
Strange are the ways of old Gods,--
Ha! I laugh, I toast priests and rabbis.

I smile at the memories of my former being:
I never cry, because I've made it a point
To never care that much about anything, or anybody.

Oh, but as a child! my imagination knew no limits.
I remember the giant people assuring me with
A quiet "shush" and a pat on the backside
That this ain't France.

And when the night goes still
I listen to your heart beat....--
Damn! you still alive?

And I heard an angel of the [true] God
As I hunched underneath a dark staircase
Waiting for the cold rain to stop. He said
"Thine hate is thy religion,
Thy dislike is thy life."
And: "Yes, sometimes this is France."
And the angel of the [true] God flew away
To some grand celestial abode,
Leaving me to shiver in the cold darkness,
And I felt myself regain my superhero powers.

And you may think that such are the ways
Of the angels of the [true] God,
And you may be right,
But that only goes to show that you don't get it;
No, you don't get it at all.

Because I lived it, see? I recognised the distinction:
I knew that I was blessed to take cold showers, and to silence midgets
With a quiet "shush" and a pat on the backside.
I knew there were times I could let go
And just see myself in France,
Because I had nowhere else to go at the moment,
Or simply because I could.

Hence, I sit in my car studying
The patterns of blood and brain matter
Congealing on the driver-side window.
I do not hear the screams outside,
Nor any rude pledges of love:--
Your whispers are the harsh sub-Arctic wind
Freezing the marrow of a rabbit
Being hunted down by a timberwolf.

My memories are origami vultures of glass,
They are tangible substances which are perceptually transparent,
They are not for prying eyes.

And it matters not how well-lit a room is,
Shadows exist everywhere.
Once I proclaimed that I am everything,
But I'm not: I'm everywhere.
You'd be too if you took ice-cold showers.

Knowledge is beauty. Such a shame
It's lost in a moment's passing,
Only to be replaced by tasteless lies,--
It's enough to boil blood.

But angels continue their sweet serenades to me
In my dreams, they comfort, protect me:
Old Gods retain some of their erstwhile might
Even now, at this late stage
Of spiritual bitterness and crumbling faith. Disappointment.

For Time is that which stole your lovely flesh,
Replaced it with a gawdy pelt
Which strains when you try to smile
And shifts comfortably when you frown.

And somewhere someone's saying "I smell a rat,"
Or, "I smell a rat."
And moonbeams tickle my aura
When I'm perched in a tree that faces your bedroom window.
And these ambitious lines can only hope to approximate
My true feelings for you.

August 1994-September 1995