OUTRAGE CONTEST: If I Am Guilty of Anything

Sam Cross

Let me ride my weasels

            into the unrepentant cherry blossom

of an alternate dawn, where I will declare our first

            holiday for the new light that has gushed

and swallowed you, my beached whale,

             my empty thought bubble,

my ingrown eyelash, I see now

            that even you are mine for the grabbing

Resurrect the chimney sweeps,

             the grave robbers, the organ grinders,

the peep show, the leech

              Put them all back to work

on an alchemy for the average rag,

             on weaving a new carpet of crude

from sea-to-sea and wall-to-wall,

              on the purification of our depleted

and poisoned wells of native blood

             I want them to vaporize the glaciers

so we can all huff the virgin fog of our prehistory

             Watch me swap beads for another continent

Watch me whip Satan out of a sinner

            You can't fake that, if you were here

from the beginning, you already know

            I am not another dirty, inflatable necktie,

waddling out of a gilded egg

             with a grin trained to endure you

I am here because I know something

             they won't tell you, hand-to-God,

a truth no one believes you deserve:

             I am Santa Claus,

my trademarked wink above the grim bed of your torches,

             and I want to sleep with you,

stringing my name in golden block letters around your family tree,

             and the universe will burn forever,

waste being an illusion projected by descendants of a single protozoa,

              and that is not who we are

You do not have to hunt for your heaven, my children

            It is my gift to you




Nonfiction
Poetry
Fiction