Just Wanna Be Like

Was Him, once fini, on the beams,

prior, He's hewer of thorntree.

Could stretch tilapia and ewer,

dole it for all to take and eat.

For real though came pulverized metacarpus, metatarsus.

Some time later and later, latex, prosthesis, squib hocus—

once was "Green Goblin" be/been as "Him," at these thens,

still ogles nipples on tape. Philistines boo/'buke/hiss.

On His knees, when back beneath peace trees after the Foe tongued

the hot fork down the holiest holy cochlea. This I, This I—

A he/"Him" rode with the devil, once. Mr. Mad Max directed,

now take it up, now put it down, and bleed good.

And good! Bus loads

like the sandal loads

packed to see him as "Him"/Him

opening, unrestricted, and so graphically.

I was directed:

If the other actors believe you're the king...

so I belted

"alas, alas for you" as "Him," again,

again at the strain of my range.

...the audience will believe

the King dies every year—

again, again for you—but who seeks

to save shall lose, thus encore!

The concessions looks looted, like whose temple is this?!

Moneychangers boo/'buke/hiss.

This I knew, since clip-on ties, pipe-cleaner puppets, lamb getups,

riser set-ups by height. Find your suffering in His; thus directed, reel:

the stripped, sinewy model/icon of Him as "Him." Break a leg!

Lights dim, music up, stained glass cut

to blood lit for love, for craft.

Suspend.

Now here's where you're there then,

and can smell the stocks' dung

while that young gal's milk

mills Flesh from the star, hung.

Source: Sho (Wave Books, 2021)