GREGORY SHERL’S ORIGINAL:
THE OREGON TRAIL IS MADE IN CHINA
I keep the plastic Jesus on the dashboard of the wagon.
At the Kansas River crossing I ask Him Do I ford the river
or caulk my wagon, let the current take me home?
The plastic Jesus is tired & I understand why: we
are too young to talk with a currency. This is why
I can only carry 100 pounds of meat after I shoot
a bison. It’s why child #2, Wendy, has the most tired
marrow. She sleeps all day in the back of the wagon,
prays to the trail for softer soil, maybe a new mother.
The thing about consumption is you die. The thing
about death is I have nowhere to rest myself when
you’re dustier than a broken a piano. My unwashed
heart feels like fleshy sky, & when I ford the river, my boots
always get wet. If the Oregon Trail was Xanax or your
spinal fluid, I would be okay with the lack of commercials
in my heart. I would be okay with these blisters
on my feet, & your mind six feet below wherever I’m not
standing. But the Oregon Trail is an unwanted pregnancy,
the goddamn New York Marathon. I’m so tired I could forget
to wash my hair when I bathe. I wouldn’t care, I’d just think
Tomorrow there is soap, too. If there wasn’t soap tomorrow,
I just wouldn’t wash my hair. It’s easy living with regret.
At Soda Springs a banker from Boston is preaching words
his mind made up. He says aliens beamed him up & felt
his cheeks like a washcloth. He says they used his heart
like a butter knife. They ate toast always.
At the darkest minute I am a door-to-door Bible salesman.
I sell everlasting life bound in glue, & for a few nickels
more, His words in red.
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THE REMIX:
OUR RED LANGUAGE OF SAVIORS
The plastic Jesus is the Kansas River crossing. Plastic Jesus is tired & too young to talk with a currency.
Plastic Jesus is 100 pounds of meat after I shoot a bison. Plastic Jesus has the most tired marrow. He is the softer soil.
Plastic Jesus is a new mother. Plastic Jesus is the thing about consumption. He is the thing about death.
Plastic Jesus is dustier than a broken piano. He is my unwashed heart. The fleshy sky. My Xanax. My spinal fluid.
Plastic Jesus is the lack of commercials. He is the swell of these blisters on my feet. His is the mind six feet below wherever I’m not standing.
The plastic Jesus is my hair when I bathe.
The plastic Jesus is a maniac from Boston preaching words. He says aliens beamed him up & felt his cheeks like a washcloth.
His eternal heart is like a butter knife. At the darkest minute His everlasting life is bound in glue.
The words of the plastic Jesus writ brilliant in red.
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Remixer’s process: The process for this mix was fairly simple. From the start I wanted to add very little (I believe I added one word?) and simply wanted to create a series of new language relationships and see what sort of tension would follow.