Gay Jesus
I was born a matchhead
and baptized a sinner
Sunday sermons taught fear of flames,
no mention that cold burns just the same,
and it’s true that all I know of God is
open wounds and unruly children
but still I’ve tasted heaven,
those nights his hot breath mixes with mine,
the Market St. Messiah
reminds me there is religion too, in the ashes
tells me worship is just time spent on knees
and prayer tissue paper wanting for a spark,
takes me to the gay bar to shove crumpled dollars
into half-drunk bottles of Jack Daniel’s
says it’s important to
tithe to a spirit that warms,
when last call has come and gone and the music is no more
he takes to the streets, a crowd trails every step
we build a church of castaways
see, how gutters make great pews
Hear him preach from atop parked car pulpit:
“Faggot means kindling bound by cloth,
string, or being-
together there is divinity even in conflagration,
queer means community, not just congregation”
We take chalk to city asphalt
etch two commandments on stone
Love: is not a reason to atone
and
if we burn
we don’t do it alone.
Grief is a Vulture
I’ve seen grief consume a man,
like desperate buzzard, sinewy and shivering
watched it gorge on picked over flesh,
croak out quiet crackles, a snap, a swallow,
the sounds of choking down gristle and bone
Now that you’re gone, I’ve become warry of the sky
lift iron face to sun, watch for talons to descend
I keep pretending, I’ll see you again,
but my imagination is waning-
and I can hear the soft flapping of wings,
the cries of something circling overhead
I don’t know how I’m supposed to miss you
without losing myself
someone tell me,
how to mourn the loss of air
and keep on breathing
Rebirth: A Simple Man’s Guide
On mornings when falling grey overtakes the earth
and the demarcation between sky and cloud has gone,
when the manzanitas hunch and
bow under weight of pearled dew,
Make your way to lowland hills,
bare your body to wet earth
bathe in the formation of cold mud,
Hand your regrets in hot fistfuls
to hungry tufts of deer grass
watch as you both grow,
nature loves a second chance
Come and learn that
it is dirty work-
this coming clean,
that it is here,
under the muted light
of almost day
covered
in a clinging muck
that you can be washed
anew
Once More
Every four years I mail in all the teeth I’ve shattered
biting these bullets
mere sight of ballots turns bleeding gums inkwell,
finger to feather,
stained skin scribbling portraits of a lesser evil
I conduct seances - ask the dead
if the bombs feel different painted
blue or red
ask if starving stomachs are ever satisfied with
“it could be worse,”
how many calories in a serving
of consolation?
Can you hear the changing of the guard?
that song you’ve sung a million times
but will never quite recall
listen how the bugle cuts through the stillness of
mo(u)rning
Promises of change, yet-
babies are still born fodder, awash in the
flames that made fuel of their fathers
a people burn
and our nation
claims the future
bright
*****
Konrad Ehresman is a creative living on the coast of California he enjoys writing about the messiest bits of life. His work has appeared or is upcoming in journals like Bluebird Word, BarBar, Persephone Magazine, BreatheBold, MockingOwl Roost and The Racket. When he isn’t reading or napping you can find him baking far too much bread and being a general nuisance, he invites you to forget Instagram and follow him in person.
