ORIGINAL HIPSTER

Jesus must have thought

himself a hipster, all hirsute,

with garments waving loose and unfettered

like sawgrass rippled by

April’s throaty sigh, venting

over the dry heaves of the desert,

improvising wordgames of flexible parables

for the edification of adoring crowds

bunched together like sun-ripened berries.

And afterwards, accompanied by his

nomadic posse of disciples, they would

swarm over the landscape like famished crabs

across the ocean floor, wailing at the

bellicose Judean night, delirious from prayer,

seething in evangelical sweat.

How full of himself he must have been,

knowing it was all about him, yet

crippled by the intractable knowledge

that it must end with a whimper, all the while

knowing real hipsters fade away

to the sound of bluesy nocturnes,

but for him the end would come

hearing only the forsaken dust swirls

coiling through Golgotha.