“I was sitting uncomfortably
in proper Easter Sunday attire
that I picked out in the last ten
minutes before I left the house
because I wanted to wear a suit
but it was at the cleaners.
The skirt fell like a moth's wings
over my knees which were already
covered with a silky web slip
and a prickly set of stockings
because I forgot to shave my legs
and it itched.
I certainly wasn't going to wear
a skirt without
a pair of stockings,
even if I did remember to shave my legs.
I have deadlines; I shouldn't
have to bother with trivialities like shaving
and skirts and moths.
Everyone was singing and Will was on stage
playing his bass with a look of concentration
on his face, and he looked all pretty and painted
like he should be on a wall somewhere
in a museum
in a small town
where the painter smoked cigars
on his porch with a radio.
I wasn't singing because I didn't know the
songs and singing in church
gives me a terrible vulnerability
because behind the upturned face-masks
and the god-fearing cloaking device
they're judging me.
At least they were in this church, this
new church. Not in the other one.
Nevertheless, they judge us,
and so do therapists, even though
they say they don't.
I could diagnose them pretty well, I figure.
God complex, OCD, illusions of grandeur.
Your mother didn't tell you she loved you enough, did she?
You were the kid who burned ants on the playground using
the grease from your face and your thick, smeared beer-bottle
glasses, weren't you?
Are you going to cry now?
Are you?
Ohc! She's singing too loud!
Trying to give us a headache.
Yeah, you sing, we get it.
Now stop.
Look at that slit in her dress, and a black skirt with a white slip?
Her purse is too bright.
Her eyes are too far apart.
Yeah, you sing.
We get it.
It was during the Gospel that it happened.
The priest or preacher or rabbi or whatever
said something about men in shining garments.
I knew he was talking about Angels.
I knew it.
I knew
and yet I pictured something else entirely.
The men in shining garments
were drag queens.
Drunk drag queens from the future,
come to tell Mary and her buddies
that Jesus was in heaven.
Mary must have known, I figure,
because they didn't bring any
big
strong
men along to move
the stone from away
from the tomb.
"Don't look for the living among the dead."
They were happy drag queens.
They were all pretty and painted
like they were in a children's Bible,
with red lipstick smiles plastered on their faces
and their arms draped over each other's shoulders companionably.
One had a beer in a bottle and the other had a cigarette.
"Don't look for the living among the dead, darlin'."
And sequins.
Lotsa sequins.
Shining garments.
"Don't look for the living among the
dead, sweet'art, we're from New Yawk
an' we know these thin's.
'S alive an' in heaven."
I had the Genesis of a Revelation
sitting there, feeling
judged and uncomfortable.
I had the Genesis of a Revelation.
And my sister
was shouting about
proper Easter Sunday
attire
to my brother.
I told her that it was okay
that he wore jeans
to church
because
Jesus really didn't give a shit
what people wore.
Except I cut out the profanity
because he is my kid brother.
Jesus was friends with tons of
folks with crummy fashion
senses.
John the Baptist
wore camel skin.
I mean, oh. My. God.
Itchy and uncomfortable and
probably smelly.
Jesus was his buddy.
He didn't care.
I had the Genesis of a Revelation.
The Genesis of a Revelation.
Genesis of a Revelation.
I'm going to go to Hell.”

filth_assistant