jesus christ of landfills 

the sensation started in my joints--
the static television fuzz-- the lurch
of the room teasing my body. all the 
pencil is the jar are too big & 
the window is a swimming pool turned on
it's side. i kneel on the floor of
the shower & almost leave down the drain.
i ask for my mother & i'm reminded of 
the story of the finding in the temple.
even the sons of gods run away sometimes.
what you don't know is that between 
the temple & his reunion, jesus
slipped out of his time & stood at
the threshold of landfill-- the one
up the street from your house. creative
as he was, he made sculptures from 
rusted springs & coat hangers; tore
the stuffing from sofas to fashion new clouds.
they're dull & refuse to consider the rain.
all the while his father scolded him
that he was too young for these games.
i crawled into a cracked windshield 
& he told me if i cut myself that 
there was good chance i would 
disappear entirely. i'm flu-sick &
my bones remind me of deflated tires--
the ones he plucked from the garbage
& pretended were halos, toppling over
unsuspecting angels like coat wracks.
i'm standing there with a the smashed back
of our old rocking chair, the one
my mom sat in to put me to sleep--
wrapping me in cabbage leaves & duct tape.
i'm asking him 
what year is this-- what year is this?
& he laughs & meanders away, stepping over 
mounds of wrappers & smashed stale hamburgers.
he's slide on the welder's mask & makes the
sun purple for his own purposes.
mother, pick me up, all that's 
left is a handful of grey sand.