Sherman, set the WABAC machine.
Jesus


Having learned the language I decided
that it was time to meet Jesus. My time machine
was waiting in the garage.

It looked as if one square meter of landfill
had tried to stand and walk around. It looked
as though I had soldered together

all of the appliances in my kitchen. (Which,
of course, I had, but, mind you, according
to a theory.)

My time machine ran out of juice right before
I made it to Jesus. But luckily I found a man who
claimed to have known him.

He had a beard, that he rummaged through,
as though it were an empty white purse. And the skin
on his face was a tan abandoned parachute.

"There's something about Jesus
that nobody every mentions."

"Go on."

My interviewee was a drunken sword fighter,
as he dragged his walking stick through the sand. And his eyes
were two wet pieces of ammunition.

"His announcing that he was the Son of God
wasn't the only thing about him that some people
didn't like."

"Oh? Go on."

"Well," he said, as ripples appeared
between his eyebrows, and his eyes surfed
onto a cloud,

"he was always laughing."




Nicholas Moore