Dashboard Jesus

Dashboard Jesus

Your dashboard Jesus swims in contempt,
flexing forward with a revealing smile,
with that sick look of obsession.
He lifts his finger and points,
at the twenty-one gun salute,
a gift for the ballerina.
She has loved him since she was a little girl,
back in grammar school when she found him naked,
sitting on a park bench reading the Sunday paper.
Her looks at her with swollen eyes,
and a tongue that darts and slithers,
he runs it along the instate line.
He shows her his scars,
the spear, hammer, and nails,
exhibits for the traveling show.
Nightly there are miracles,
better than the primetime lineup,
more effective than lobotomy.
He thinks about his checkered past,
his time in Hell and the cold grave,
the nightlife surrendered for respectability.
He reminds her that he died for her,
to free her from her endorphins,
his gift is freedom from your addictions.