methodist revolt/marxist historian

methodist revolt

my father had
sidewhiskers like karl marx,
but i was not allowed to know
who marx was. i sat in that pew every
sunday buying and selling my soul and
he preached in a loud voice that
hurt my head.

my father died in 1958. the whole town
burned down stores and made
neo-surrealist drawings. i
sat in my treehouse and read
john 14 and burned holy candles.
(someone told me the candles were
holy. i burned my fingers lighting them.
someone said candles could be holy.)

two weekends after the funeral,
you danced with me.

i think you taught me a lesson,
and,
in retrospect,
i didn't want to learn it.

marxist historian

i love you because of how
your glasses wobble on your face;
and your wide mouth
allures me.

i used to think you were dispensable,
like the paper napkins that we never
used at my house
and God can raise sons of abraham
from these stones.

my soul is neo-surrealist
and my soul is neo-surrealist
but your soul is wholly unusual.
build me a spaceship-timemachine,
take me forward 400 years into another galaxy,
and help me write a marxist history.

we make a bed of
stones and paper napkins
and i
take off your marxist glasses.