here is mystery:

that he lay like a seed

in the heart of the earth

or like an insentient caterpillar

entombed for the sake of

a butterfly

he lay stiff and dry

and by most accounts

as dead as a dog

for three days or three

years or three thousand

years and yet i saw him


stinking with life: his beard

matted, his clothes greasy

and ill-fitted, his eyes shining

with zodiacal madness. He

was still dragging his twelve

disciples around but they

looked like a bunch of

junkies now, pale, and the

way they shuffled their feet

like cats on fire-escapes

coughing hard into their clenched

fists sometimes because they all

smoked too much and

spent too many nights rushing

head-down in the rain up

one alleyway and down

another till they were home.

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