Poetry David James — August 18, 2011 17:07 — 0 Comments
INTERVIEW WITH PONTIUS PILATE – David James
How could anyone have known he was the real deal?
He didn’t look the part—no crown, no jewels, no gold,
no army of warriors. He was this sad-looking guy
in dirty robes, unwashed hair, some wag with an eye
for seeing through the bullshit. He sold
himself down the river. The future will reveal
I did nothing wrong. I washed my hands and let
the crowd decide—that’s democracy.
He looked harmless, but I was willing to throw a bone
to the people. The Jews believe the body is on loan
in this world anyway. The soul, I think, is the key.
But I’m fine now—life’s good. Seriously, I have no regrets.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney