Death is Death

All my Christians on Vimeo, smashing their tambourines, trying to maintain speed through the Book of Revelations

like a tiny hurricane makes its way through a stifling afternoon, trying to whip through a morbid endless loop and die just one more time.

At Teen Jesus, we talked for hours after the five-hundred-mile trip, each of us frantic with road exhaust in his separate teeny hollow—wondering, accusing, faltering.

How will I be saved? I pressed the question into the palms of the next day when the shuddering sail strapped to shoulders and crotch rose me up

and higher up, struck me wooden with angelic panic—as all the pretty counselors beamed and waved.

All my Christians now, decades on, trying to take the whole thing private. They've wheeled the founder out to reach and rally us across our devices . . .

To hell with your money, Savior. To hell with your little stone door that leads out and out but never in.