their own phantasmagorical funeral
preacher boys with stories that’d make everyone cry.
even mother-in-laws and accountants
I have different plans on that day.
when i die
I’ll watch my father sling jawbones
both made it in the door by the grace of God
same as noah
he found grace
he discovered it
or it discovered him
before he clanked the first nail into gopher wood
or shoveled the first cart of kangaroo caca
the story began in grace and splinter
the mercy of limping jacob and stumbling bartimaeus
they sidebar and tell stories
smiling and wondering about weak eyes
discussing it with the miracle boy of Jesus’ mud pies
look(!) there’s paul–the lasik surgery is divine
big letters not necessary.
he can read the fine print
he’s catching up with a big stack by his side
& checking out the far flung analysis of his work
from n/t/wright to barnes to hal lindsay
(the later, just for fun)
The speech therapy is complete for stuttering moses.
he can wax eloquent for millennia
AND Jesus is smiling
His children–the whole great cloud is back home
The aroma of the spread catered by angels
and feasting on the vision He’s been waiting to see.
and in gobsmacked wonder, there’s a whisper
under the breath of all the saints-
“it’s all true”
i’m the guy way over in the back of the family portrait
on the 12,857,009th row
next to a man named bart wrankle (of whom i have not met)