Night flares again
The veins in my hands warrant nails driven though.
Even Christ was human
and did he suffer with chaotic thoughts like mine?
Would he have smoke his father’s cigarettes and stuffed his stomach full of bile,
Would he have listened to jazz and have half-full glass of water and ash
     spill over unwritten poetry?
Would his mind have race with memories of his mother and grandmother, his
grandmother cradling him in a yellow room singing Yiddish?
His grandmother must have been Jewish too . . .

And is that movie correct?
And am I going through what He did:
finding my place and not understanding a goddamn thing?
Although I don’t think He would have used the word goddamn.

But maybe he would have.
Maybe He would have cursed his creator like I do at times,
And maybe the keys of his typewriter would have gotten stuck unable to keep up,
And maybe his nails were bitten to the quick and bleeding like mine and hurting,
And maybe he didn’t even want to try anymore,
his muscles too tense,
his fingers hurting,
uncalloused from being away from work for so long,
the sweat from his brow only because it’s too hot and he’s lonely,
wanting only to see those eyes again,
And maybe,
if he had a phone,
he’d be waiting for it to ring.