Wise Blood

A man with a good car
doesn't need Jesus.
Shits behind trees
along the road-side,
and sleeps sitting straight
up behind the wheel.

It's in the blood. Wise.
When the soul is restless,
blood knows what to do.
Bound only by distance,
a man moves forward
to do what he's never done.

A year ago, more, a girl
wanted me. Lay down,
dappled in sunlight, beneath
a tree. Took off her shoes
and hose to feel the grass
under her feet. Skirt riding
high on white thighs. Wild.

Road prayers are without gods.
On the road sacrament
is a potato peeler for
a girl with a black baby
in her arms: a new savior
who will not redeem.

Lord, who needs redemption
with a wild, teenaged girl
and a good car? Let the lame
hobble and the dead sleep.
But the engine speaks!
Move. Forward. Now!

When the girl goes something
goes with her. The eyes,
the mouth, something more.
That thing not said becomes
a haunt, a crooked face of road.
The smiling road says, "Welcome."

Movement is the gospel of the road-
disciple. Psalms are the humming
engine and the passing of miles.
The new Jesus never speaks. Only keens
the endless complaints of man.
Frightened. Hungry. Cold. In love.