You don’t see, do you.
You can’t see what a stupid plan
this is.
Don’t open the door. Stay in heaven.
Helping people will only infuriate the
power structures of the church.
This year, before you do the whole
swaddling clothes bit,
think it through.
Emmanuel is a generous offer
but I am worried about how it will all end.
You do this ever year.
Come to be with us, I mean.
The whole story starts again.
The angel.
The baby.
The red and green presents.
The boy with attitude.
Falling in with the Zealots.
Can’t you see that this will not end well
for that soft, sweet body?
Your friends will abandon you
except for John
and that mouthy mother.
Couldn’t you have joined the Audio Visual club
at school?
Sure, they are nerdy and spotty;
but they would have stood by you.
But no.
You had to go get yourself
right in the face of the power-people.
Their vestments and staffs of power
will not salve their molten envy of your powers
to preach, to heal, to navigate them.
Their egos will demand your life.
Even Pilate will relent and they
will chime in. Get the job done.
It’s just a sphere.
Pretty in its blue and green,
it’s just a ball of water and land.
Some snow and desert.
Why come to be with us back then?
You don’t plan well.
If you had come to be with us now,
you could announce a new Kingdom on
Wikileaks
and then go get asylum in Russia
like Julian.
The one with the glasses and sparkly eyes.
Clearly he was part of the AV club
in high school.
Maybe Francesco Carotta was right.
Julian got his name from Julius.
Perhaps it’s all connected.
But no. You had to push power
with no internet or embassy
to save you from the egos
who would crush you;
while we watch
you twist and drip on that cross.
I expect it was your eyes.
They must have been able to see
the love in your eyes;
those beautiful eyes.
Tomorrow,
when I decorate my tree.
I’m gonna
hang a monocle
to remind me
why it all happened.
Round.
Clear.
Vulnerable,
Magnifying.
And when the the light is right
it will cast colors
on the wall.
And I will remember.
