(Monreale) (Sicilia 43)

I’m here, sitting in the front row.
the chair is comfortable – more so than a pew.
the light is calming, if only as a
relaxant compared to the loud German being hushed.

and now, someone has paid the fine.
E1 to see that famous father’s son lit.
I’m somewhat confused what his hand sign means
but certain the long face is not because of
impending crucifixion.

who was this poor soul
who twenty centuries later we sprawl
eternally
on these walls and ceilings?
what imperfections of the skin,
acne, moles, hairy navel,
did he have?
what lost thoughts floated between his ears
at the moment of his self-concientization?
and would he approve of these institutions
the cafe being served beneath his dying body
the parades through rain raped streets
the charms worn proudly, decked in precious metals
as a display of little else than
curious consumer conformity?

no, I think his existence was probably easier.
I think he didn’t have time to challenge all corrupt
or protect all the poor.
I think the centuries of callousness to his image
would offend deeply.
to think of the sheer expense of these
priceless tombs of our individual choice!
to think of the mouths that have went unfed
and the business deals – the contacts -
that have robbed the innocent from
within these cool chambers!
to realize dreams for a limited few
and share none in the earthly salvation
so many truly need!

ah, that is his expression.
the fingers now hold a pause – stop, please stop.
long into my eyes, linger your questions.
because if he’s there looking right now
stashed with all the answers
he’s saying, whoa is me, for the followers
who I’ve created. and me -
I’m here, sitting in the front row.