Andy Roberts

Blind Faith

In Arles they found him without a hat
striding through stinkweed, wet to the knees,
no dog to cheer him. A raven followed,
harassing, pecking at his ears.
This was a blind Jesus with 
brutal thumbs, huge nose, tiny broken teeth
they worshipped in the Kingdom of the Franks
after the Moderns, the Primitives, a pale bloody savior.
This Christ never rested but churned like a locomotive,
red coal in his pipe a pilot light
guiding those who followed.
Devotion a joke to the jealous,
whose jeers started as whispers,
veering into laughter, insults.
When he tamed the crow it perched on his shoulder,
soothing, clucking, waiting for the opportunity
to peck out the right eye, then the left.
But the savior flinched at the last second, 
unable to complete the scarification.
Onward he steamed, chewing the wheat, charging,
boots broken, blood drying on his face in the hot sun, 
wind whipping, knocking him down, stumbling onward,
sight swirling through cypresses, cornfields.
They loved him for inventing the sunflower,
for planting it there, in the south of France, 
hands plunged in black dirt, nails jammed with it, 
the only thing blind his faith in the good strong light.

He Swears He Sees

Let’s start our story with the oysterboy
in the church of the wrong-eyed Jesus.
He’s blowing his horn so badly, 
feeding the burning bush
spades of napalm
with a plastic shovel.
The oysterboy molded by the shell
he shucks behind the scenes,
against the grain,
beneath the false floor
where the screams come from. 
The strangles burst like bubbles from the bell,
the boy bent with total permanent embolism.
The cries of the pewsquatters never pierce
his ears, his pleasures never sweeter
than the grave he daily craves.
He swears he sees milk and stars
when he plays, god with aquavivid eyes.
He turns himself into a stranger
when he plays “Harney Basin Blues,”
“Master Of Emptiness” with a sugared brain
so slow the bugs begin to walk,
the mouse begins to roar.
He wakes up with the staggers and the jags,
sees the man struggle through the quickmud,
the closed door open, the clock hands go back.
When he sees he plays his brain off,
blows his lip out, bleeds his gums dry,
deep down in burning hog oil he swears
he sees way out past the milk and stars.

Andy Roberts is the author of three chapbooks from Pudding House Publication, and five from NightBallet Press. Recent publications include American Life In Poetry, Atlanta Review, Chiron Review, Iconoclast, Lake Effect, The Midwest Quarterly, Mudfish, San Pedro River Review, and The Sow's Ear Poetry Review. He lives in Columbus, Ohio where he handles finances for disabled veterans.