What if the only person who could be Christ was an addict? A deadbeat?
What if redemption germinates in slime, shit and piss?
It’s worse out there than we think
It’s always worse
It’s always deeper
and yet also somehow less
So that we’d rather not know, not look, not slow our roll
But what if this brand of glory is some pathetic, anonymous moment?
Not martyrdom but nameless, faceless dissolution
Not ignominy but private shame
What if the crucifix is self loathing?
What if the aggregate of all our microscopic dread are the forces acting upon us
The stripes, the stigmata
What if the garbage in the street were relics for some busybody’s collection
and holiness is something far, far away?