Good/Black Friday

On a Friday we ate from His gushing side
discounts and credits buzzing in our stomachs,
electronics shining in our eyes, disrupting circadian rhythms.
We ate our monthly-sold flesh
thinking that one more—this one—would make hunger pangs disappear.

Is this the monthly saving bread?
A new host come to feed us, living on,
long after our bones are reworked into
fertilizer.

A sacrifice that HE demands, a yearly purge to satiate,
to remind that no mind is left disconnected, untouched, by meaning
preceding overcoming
i.

“Don’t rip words from their language games. Use them to trade.”

But what if I ripped to pierce the crucified body,
hammer knees caps into mud,
pummel the body into liquid no nail can hold
onto?

Such ripping, such choking air bubbles in throats, such warped floor boards,
bending store doors barricading against masses pressing in
just to graze the hem of His garbadine garment:
this viral faith in black mirrors that all things hoped for
will finally be uncovered
seen.