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89 | 3-D Jesus (double sonnet) Fish jump through the sadness of sales tax, as the transparent man whose wig is darker than his beard stands with hands open and raised, sandwiched in Kodak rainbows, blind prophet of our own blindness, paid less than minimum, no benefits, caught between Tampax machines, cinnamon breath mints, and headlines of moviestar adoptions and mercury overdose. 3-D Jesus walks on a waterfall, hands raised as if to call his flock of lost fishermen, pale as stock options. A Miracle Vue Production, made in Japan, land of micromiracles , fine-laminated food, assembly-line Buddhas, and conveyor belts of plastic, waterproof | 90 saints, all landfill-proven immortal. Spinning round on a drugstore rack, his plastic, raining eyes will never see the homeless woman exchanging blood for Diet Coke. She can’t afford his redemption. Her only hope is what she spies behind him on the shelf—infinity effect of her own reflection—and what she’ll slip into the depths of her moonless pockets. ...

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