We grew up in the white “charismania” as they

say nowadays. We grew up hands raised

high, name-brand kicks kissing the front platform—

where the good kids praised the band, closed their eyes,

and knew all the words to sermons and songs.

I haven’t left; but I’m still living

a few questions—asking why they’re living

under a box and we throw so many away, why they

smile wholly while singing heavier songs—

the ones I wasn’t supposed to listen to. I was raised

on folk and rock but the good kids shot up Jesus-pop. Eyes

rolling back, they proclaimed their inner-platform.

The Republican Party Platform

was the Sunday sermon, instructing our living

and giving (“and don’t meet eyes

with those cardboard guys; they

want your money for drugs, they raised

their kids on wrong books and songs

and now everyone’s left them”). And our songs

went on about the me-God, front platform

pulsing Jesus-ecstasy into our chests and we raised

our hands to receive a Holy Spirit’s confirmation—our living

was for this moment. From here we’d “go into all the world,” and they

would listen and cry and feel fire in our eyes.

We missed the point. His eyes

wept for them, too. He sang human hymn-songs

after the meal and before the mount, before they

betrayed and turned away. He went lower. He didn’t ask for a platform

or a praise. He died for our living.

“If then you have been raised

with Christ…put to death what is earthly.” Raised

voices and hands and eyes

aren’t the end—but a small beginning to real living,

and it’s then our lives are songs

soaking deep, when our platform

transfigures low and dirty and they

see our lives raised: “here’s to heavy songs

and alive-eyes and parole from our iron-lung platform.

Here’s to whether they see the real Him—in us really living.