The Prayer of Jesus J

The Prayer of Jesus J



Easter is hope.  It is

an egg hunt.

Easter is anger dissolved in meditation.  It is

a big fat saga of chemical gases that has changed my name to Jesus J.

Easter is an egg hunt.  It is Jesus, my friend, in lead role as Lazarus.

Jesus in a Playboy suit.

Jesus, my favourite word.  Jesus, our friend, is alive again.

My Lord.  Our Christ.  My prayer.

Oh Jesus, hear my prayer.

Jesus, I pray for the maleness that will blow me away

And take me away from this remote frailty.




I pray for a man who is made of pornography peeled pleasures packaged

in lip-smacking Chinese noodles.

(salt and pepper)

A man who’s got the most sensitive nipples

And who wouldn’t cringe with talks of necrophilia and incest.

A man with a goatee.

A man whose sincerity is bigger than his penis.

A man.  A daddy.

A boy.  A child.

A man who knows poignancy, even in comic split seconds

and can also cry to Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors.

A man who has a nice-looking feet, complacent for worship at any given time.

A man who can write me a letter in long-hand

Or can email me an original thought –

Or SMS me without the well-liked contempt of language.

I pray for a man who will not like me because I am a writer but because

my eyes are dramatic and can make him laugh.

I am tired of men whose garden needs tending all the time.

I am tired of being given the obligation

of making them feel good by watering their desiccated confidence

and giving them wages in return for a hot kiss.

A man who can cook.  A chef.

A taxi driver.  A doctor.

A guitarist.  A rainmaker.

A man who will rain on my parade when I am wrong but will also

Kiss me when I say I am sorry for being wrong.  Jesus,

I pray for a man whose long legs can tie me down and save me

From the demon that I can be and take me away,

So far away, from this remote frailty.



My name is Jesus J

I have a peace sign tattooed on my chest.  They say I have risen back from the dead


I rode the taxicab thinking how I did it.

I light a cigarette in my head thinking how I did it.

I headset to my Easter song called Club Can’t Handle Me by Flo Rida

and requested for the driver to slow down because curves makes me dizzy.

Welcome to my egghunt.

This is so ridiculous.  This is so phoney.

What kind of affection should I feel today?  Life, in all its supposed

life-giving gradation

only teaches me to take a grip and pray harder because

there is nothing imposing enough to feel affection for.

At least recently.

Nothing devastating enough to flirt with.  Nothing

worth loving.  Worth digging.

And I am alive again.

So, now what?

What is there to look for?  To ferret madly given the tradition?

I tweak my nose, getting the oil out.

I see the stigmata on my palms, three days down and still needing Betadine.

I remember the man I murdered almost two years ago.  The one who abandoned me

after I have given the greatest love of all:  loving him and his very small dick.

He is dead now, thank God!

I remember the man that came before him.

I remember my Syrian boyfriend who came years before anyone of them.

The man who had syphilis.  The one who smiled perfectly.

They all died and did not come back from the dead.

They fucked me inside out.  They all fucked me inside out.

And I murdered them all.

One by one.

Yes, Jesus J is a criminal.

Yes, Jesus J is a man murderer.

Yes, Jesus J is alive again and ready to get off this taxicab

and be a serial-killer again.


Boxes surround me these days.

The smell of oxidation and brown paper,

33 sarcophaguses paralleled towards the day of the rising

wakes me up in the morning.


Boxes containing memories and validities

That beautifies sorrow as if sequined by the longing

To buy freedom and to be told that life is okay

as they accompany me when I coffee in the morning.

Boxes are my friends because they listen in stoned silence

When I talk profanities or to myself or to God

Who are still recovering Catholics who can’t figure out

why Jesus Christ had to become a zombie on the third day.



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