Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness.
Allen Ginsberg
steve a. manolis poet
Modern Day Jesus
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THE BOOK OF JOE:
The first light of Christmas morning
Caught Garbage Can Joe just like any other day
He knew it was Christmas but didn’t much care
His gifts came in thrown out boxes and wrapping paper
To give him warmth for another evening
Maybe he would score an extra stash of beer cans
And he was ready with an empty shopping cart,
He cashed in what he could the night before
Enough to get a pint or two when the stores opened again
Joe was hoping for a good hit, to help him through
Remembering his war days out in the desert
Fighting useless fights against Iraqi children
Where he lost his name and is sanity
His only reality beat in his head, like a jack hammer
Day after day after day.
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THE BOOK OF MARIE:
Marie was in bad shape
She was found on her hands and knees by two junked up head trips
Her arm bleeding from the track marks
That resembled a railroad yard running up and down her left arm
Her right arm was no better, broken in two places
From another beating by her pimp for not bringing in any cash
She had reason; she was pregnant, although it barely showed
The head trips ran when Marie rolled on her side
Clutching her stomach and screaming bloody murder
It’s coming she yelled, but to no one in particular
Who gave a damn on these streets, just another junkie, just another day
FUUUUUUUCCKKKK she yelled out on last time, and then a cry
A small innocent whimper and Marie reached for the cord
And tore it with her teeth, shuttering in horror and relived finally of the pain
She crawled a few feet away to some worn blankets or shirts
Wrapped the child lifted a nearby lid and laid it on top of some lost feast.
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THE BOOK OF JOSE:
Jose dealt drugs since he was 12,
before that he was a lookout for the previous corner hustler
at 15 he killed his dealer on orders from the top
all to prove himself and to increase profits going to the neighborhood boss.
He ‘met’ Marie during a gang rape initiation; it was his first, Marie’s too
Several months later he became her supplier and her torturer
He gave her drugs for free, and he got his kicks for free in exchange
Nine months later she pushed out the baby,
it had been that long since she last saw Jose, he wanted younger girls
Little did Marie know Jose was shot the night before, by another pimp
There would be no funeral for Jose, no church bells, no family claiming him
Those that knew him just moved on, it was the way of the neighborhood
Everything was expendable, and the people were just empty vessels
Carcasses to do what was told of them, no asking question, no getting answers
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THE BOOK OF JESUS:
Joe found the baby in the second dumpster
It was wrapped in the soiled blood-stained towels and torn skirt of Marie
The umbilical cord hung like a dead eel shriveled on the beach, left to die
The baby only whimpered when Joe lifted him gently into his arms
The baby was smooth and soft, the color of a creamed coffee
The baby cooed at Joe, and Joe called him Jesus, and then he waited
He pulled the shivering Jesus closer into his tattered flannel shirt
Deep beneath his dirt stained army jacket feeling deeply alone
And he waited and he waited, but the wise men never came.