Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus

And this is where I am Jim White
By Tamarah Phillips

In Seattle there is a regular dose of religious rebirths. Walking by the signs on the side of the road I swore I would never believe another man who claimed freedom. Jesus and poverty work hand in hand – birthing from phrases and sighs of religious existence. I had resigned myself to agnosticism and had taken for granted the stars that were so much brighter when I was girl. But one night in Belltown – the only place were dieties can drink without persecution – I found him.

Standing there he looked like he had just stepped out of a southern Baptist cowboy music video. He was always hidden under that hat. Eyes thrown ground down and a simple smile perched on his lips. Boots was a broken-down saint if there ever was one. He was an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. I fell in love with the way he caressed his words like a old man would his young lover.

Neon lights and marquees littered the sky where the rain threatened to ruin any hopes of salvation. Love, redemption, forget it. I was near the space needle looking up --God couldn’t have created a better sight – the red bud of my cigarette howling at the moon. He stepped out of the shadows -- into the light -- I thought I heard an angel sing but realized it was only the South Lake Union Transit running by.

Leaning over – breathing deep – my ears went soft with lust and love for hands that I thought I would never hold. He whispered something from across the road -- spoke in eloquance that held its breath while going through tunnels.

Behind his ears were tattoos. His right ear heard the screams of the ∞ and hidden quietly behind his left was a spiral of 3.14159. One morning after a night of heavy dreaming I asked him why does his right screams so loudly and his left like a mousey little poet. He chuckled then. Never answered questions in straight lines but in concentrict circles.

“If you stand in the middle of the freeway reciting poetry no one will ever hear it. And if you lay low in readings and mumble rose colored glasses no one will pay attention. The question is not about voice but about love.”
And he smiled and that was it for then. His eyes stood out of his head in this pale blue wonder. I never lingered long on what he said. The only point was that he said it. I lost months in that disciplin.

The corner of 3rd and Bell – the Space Needle glimmers down the street past the monorail where the heretics and madmen scream broken down dreams and half assed revivals – we spoke in hymns long forgotten and he asks to move in with me and before I could refuse he has unpacked and placed his hat on my bedrail and for a moment I am happy and for a moment I am sad. I am not sure where to end it but it has just started and I am thinking this is good.

The bed rail held down conversations late at night. It was wooden – dark wood with fine grain – and the bed sheets were constantly changing due to bodily fluids. One day it would be white the next black and the next grey and after a while we settled on the ending color of white with black trim. The curtains were blue and the window never fully closed properly. I had no door to my bedroom and the noise from the kitchen where he cooked seeped ever so gently into the bed where I lay reading.

Between January and April the winter held us inside where we lay in tongues spoken in Latin and Leonard Cohen. The unanswered questions I had posed had been answered and I had fed him his last meal and all the remained was the coming of the snow.

“Dreams are for those who sleep in beds,” Boots told me the last night he climbed into bed with me, “and the sweetness in your arms could take a fool for granted.” And he snored that night but took off his clothes. It was mid-august and the noise on the street was begging for more and the stars were just streetlamps that flickered behind the whites of his eyes.

I’m not sure why I did it. I guess I was born to play the role of Judas. He was Jesus – albeit a sadly cross-eyed wrong flavored son of a bitch – but he had promised to save my soul. I had promised to betray him. It all came down to that. That night, before I killed him, he looked into my eyes and said thank you. I asked him what for and he said you’ll see.

While he slept I plotted my betrayal. I thought endlessly of the words he spoke that never made sense. I thought of his loving me only for a roof over his head and I thought of how I would lay awake at night and listen to the street while he snored and I haven’t slept soundly since December. I thought of how he never fought for me. How he would turn a song into five dollars for a crack head passed out in the dog park but couldn’t help find something to eat when I was out of money.

I walked down to the corner store – pacing thoughts ruptured in my head – and bought a couple of Mickey’s Big Mouths. Sat on the stairs to the apartment drinking them – obsessing over the details that I had in my mind. The red rug I would lay him on after I killed him. How I would let him decompose in the dog park for three days. If he would return to earth after that like any Son of God should.

I tied him to the bed frame. He was a heavy sleeper and didn’t notice. His snored punctuated my anger as I tightened the knots. I had a stainless steel nail gun. I slammed one nail into his right hand – he woke and said nothing. The pain of betrayal in his eyes born into mine and I knew I was doing the right thing.

I popped another nail home into his left hand and all I had left were the feet and he still hadn’t made a sound. Tears slid silently down his cheeks and then I thought of the moments of reading books in the supermarket with him. I thought of the days of wine and roses and for a moment I was almost sad about what I was doing.

I tied his feet together with hemp and slammed the final nail through. He was still alive and I stood above him. The blood on my hands was his and he looked beautiful. My lover, my deity – bound and broken before me – I kissed him one last time and left.

The street sounded torture. The noise of screams echoed throughout the block and the wailing of sirens commenced in flickering lights. I walked in candor towards the greyhound bus depot. Cleaning my hands and face in the rusted sink and giving a smoke to the bums I was humbled by my actions. I bought a ticket to Chicago and thought of the new life I was going to have. I almost cried when we pulled onto the interstate. Leaving behind my religious persecutions I was hoping for freedom in the windy city.

I was approaching forgiveness by the time we pulled into 95th and Dan Ryan in Chicago – God couldn’t have created a more desolate place. The cash machine was blue and green and I took out dollars from a name I hadn’t used in over five years. I bought a pack of cigarettes and a diet coke. Making my way to Wicker Park -- I found a small apartment and a new name.

At the Earwax café I saw the unfrequented religious holdings of paper cups and small change. Looking up from my coffee I saw the familiar smile of persecution. The eyes starving for someone to listen – he was a broken down saint if there ever was one -- an eloquent screamer, a soft-spoken rageoholic, a madman with a great manuscript. Standing before me I saw the tattoos on his hands and the love in his pants. He was my chance for redemption – my wrong-eyed Jesus.

something i have been working on

Degrees of Gray in a Hotel Room between a Church and A Prison

there is a past of all decent regrets
and lives of pacified rejection
it's late at night and i'm drinking alone
the road supplies it's own affection

between a 7-11 and a church of the latter day saints
contemplating gods crooked smile
I'm rejecting the salvation
of half assed revivals

eyes the color of church basement walls
and hair a bible black grey
caught up in love and redemption
the place were saints pray

wandering from town to town
gospel search for gold
merchandise of half hearted hymns
and songs that are only sold
--

In other news I have been spending too much time alone. I am wishing I were a more intriguing person. Something to work towards I guess. If you hear of anything worth while attending -- let me know.