Jesus Of The Bottom Line

The man who mistook the money he made
for time with his family
the intimate touch of the edge of his desk
as it dug into his butterfat belly
when he slept every night
embrace by his tooled leather belt

He tries to hand down his wisdom
to waitresses and the janitorial staff
knows the names of their children
the aspirations they once held
the cruelty of the rejection
of their third-hand sedans
hard to start of a chilly morning

Sunday mornings he only has eyes
for the money he saves
sharpening razors
in the executive washroom
watching church services on the internet
God bless the good parts
the ants that toiled in the fields
the saints who healed
so others could get on with work

how do you take your salvation sir
one miracle or two?

he is lured home
on the selfish pretenses
of a family who has never noticed
the gray in his beard
indeed has never seen
the beginning of the beard
that make his lips look
like implacable cherries

he leaps out a second story window
trusting providence to break his fall

the staff at the hospital calls him
the chairman
rolling around the halls at all hours
guiding his electric chariot
with puffs of breath
demanding inventories from linen closets
asking orderlies about their wives

as he ages he spends more time
watching videos about nature
the vast world he knows
from the allergens that torment his nose
he sleeps every night
cloaked in air-conditioned dim
teases himself to sleep with fantasies
hearing the opening bell stock reports
hoping for the redemption
of his diversified portfolio

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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Shamala Chandran

Run as much as be can pursuing material stuff…the truth and destination if all always the same!


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