Sunday, April 5, 2015

Easter Weekend: a Poem

I. Good Friday

Good Friday was rough.
It didn’t feel good at all.
Even though it was the Art Walk,
and I should have been celebrating,
I felt burdened with financial problems.
My passion projects are all a sacrifice—
the gallery and zine store
which cost me money, just to exist.
My business model is the inverse 
of capitalism—I own businesses
that give to others and cost me.
And my friend calls it 
“A waste of money.”
After the art show,
after DJing, I was exhausted,
and I slept almost all day Saturday.
What do they call that day?

II. Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday. When Jesus slept
in death.  Wondering if life will continue
any longer, or if I will break and 
lose what I have worked so hard to build.
On Holy Saturday, I lay in bed,
unable to get up,
except to get a slice of cold pizza.
Late in the night, instead of an earthquake,
the power in my house went out,
not with a bang, but a whimper,
and I wondered: How late am I 
on that electric bill?  

III. Easter Sunday

I awake early in the morning 
and miraculously the power is back on,
the fan blowing a gentle breeze.
In Andrei Tarkovsky’s final film,
The Sacrifice, a father tells his son a story 
about a young man who watered a dead
tree every day for three years, until finally,
one day, it came to life again.
On Easter weekend,
I walked through a mini passion play.
Every year a million little Christs
die and sleep and rise again—
all those springtime flowers
and little lambs, and all the 
people quietly burdened and tired,
catching a glimpse of that springtime Jesus,
rising again in a thousand ordinary towns.

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