Goodtime Jesus by James Tate

My personal favorite.

GOODTIME JESUS

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dream-
ing so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it?
A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled
back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beau-
tiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little
ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.

As someone who believes in God sincerely, not the foundations society has put religion in but in God himself, I absolutely adore this. I often hope/wish Jesus was a laid back guy. I'm sure he was. Though it is my sense of humor to want Jesus to say as a side-note, "Hell I love everybody." Funniest part of it is that its true. Great writer, great prose.

I've been doing alot of poetry reading lately.
Some poems remind me of myself, my own writing style
Some remind me of those loved
Some remind me of my mind unraveling before the very reader's eyes. Which Tate happens to specialize in.
Though I would like to broaden my horizons in respect to modern poetry. I like wry witty poetric that doesn't follow pattern or logic really. Know of any?

This is a poem I wrote a while back. I haven't really produced anything really lately. This is one where I reached into the what I call "strange" sector that is me and pulled out some schema which follows...


Velvet Ropes
On day as I stroll about the block
The Museum of Modern Art finds its way among the path
What it hides inside--everything off limits

The velevet rope taunts
How pretentious

Graceful as a string player
I leap the low red fabric
prohibiting the curiosity

I was on my way to the florist
But the sharp garden shears stopped me here

Daylight allows
A beam of sun
To glimpse Picasso's score
To hear the clarinet and guitar
For one last time

Before a created overture is marked
The clippers emerge from my satin green coat
I honestly don't think he will mind
A surrealist would have loved this

"The Three Musicians" decrescendo
Caesura
The sound echos the empty hall

The man playing the clarinet thanks me
As he has played the same triplets
For far too long
And the old bearded man's arms are tired
How he holds the score

Cubism takes new form
Pieces on the floor
The men dressed in suit threaten

So I
Re-arrange the pieces now on the marble-quartz
So the man playing the clarinet becomes blind
And the bearded one a beggar
The score holder speaks through his hands

I comply and wonder why
I am picking up pieces that never belonged
Together in the first place
A little like life isn't it?
Maybe Picasso did know what he was doing

-Chelsea Whitton