I.
i’ve got this sweetheart who would make a good messiah, at a glance,

since he’s all skin ‘n shin and janky skeleton parts, since he’s all hair

lapping its way down his hind-sides, since he’s all catch-phrases and

how-de-do’s and heaps everyone up into constant repetition.

you take a glance at other messiahs, the kinds of messiahs you your-

self might consider following, they’ve all got certain things in common:

they’ve got outsides you’d consider desecrating, for starters. they’ve

got odd and memorable facial hair and the distinct kind of manhood
that could hint at equality or inequality, depending on the viewer’s

mood. then, in case their scarred up outers ain’t enough to make you

feel askew, there’s a certain sense of sadness and boom!

your protagonist is complete. let’s get something straight first, though:

i know deep down my messiah is a simple being; he grew up in a

wee ole place and spends his every day constantly impressed with

himself, wondering but never questioning just how he got where he did.

II.
he came from this funny little place and he says he hates it, same as
most people say they hates their funny little places, i mean not everyone,
some people call them home, but most people hate their small town upbringings
and hush their mouths in giving details, but he came from this funny little
place, which he says he hates, and the parts he lets on make it sound like
he lived in a backwater circus, welding and carrying concrete in the amusement
park he was brought up in.

III.
some people you can’t ever imagine as being little, you’ll give it a go, but
they’re just smaller versions of themselves, still smoking cigarettes even
though they’re three and a half feet tall and messing up their “r”‘s like
elmer fudd. like, when he’s little, he’s still got those ridiculous and
half-assed dreads. like, when she’s a young ‘un she’s still got those tattoos
she never really wanted to get, the kind that make her look trashy no matter
how detailed the shading is. like they’re still answering phones in old
warehouses selling whole-sale party supplies, even when they’re knee-high.

so when he says he comes from a funny little place he doesn’t like, no not
at all, i see him four-foot nothin’ and hauling slabs of concrete over barren
ground, still with his sticky out ages old broken rib-cage and his hair all
in his face and his giant bugged out eyes blinking chitlins sweat off of his
brow. to clarify:

IV.
i have a sweetheart who would make a good messiah, which is a tall claim to make,
i’m sure, but that’s just fine for a messiah. he’s broken near every goddamn bone
in his body at one point or another and maybe in a different country, dragged his
foot across tarmacs after tripping down the stairs in the middle of nowhere
tennessee, and it’s like with every crack he starts mumbling something new.

then people pick it up and say it all along with him, never really knowing all
the origins. folk songs from folk festivals? doesn’t seem so, more like he had an
inkling and made it up as he went along. don’t know for sure the tune, don’t know
for sure the lyrics, all he’s got’s a notion. but that’s just fine for a messiah.

05/16/2010

Posted on 05/17/2010
Copyright © 2024 Eli Skipp