At the biblical wax museum, Job is covered in open boils leaking cheesy pus.
They look tasty, like manicotti.
Mostly scrim is used to convey the New Testament miracles.
Mostly, people appear in a place they hadn’t been before.
And silk flowers by the millions—that’s Eden, and other vacation spots.
Across the country road the dead plant sits, production halted lo these thirty years.
At the end they dump you out into a red velvet chapel, hand you a box of tissues.
Also the guy tells you his heroin story, sobbing, and how he’s so guaranteed.
It’s awkward to exit him.
Afterward there’s a gift shop.
Thirty-cent postcards of Job on his knees, in ricotta, in the best “anguish” wax can do.
The sight of those rusty-awninged stairs to nowhere—an unsound upper floor.
Back on the road all we hear are unsounds, unsounds, unsounds.
Then a real one. An air horn. Didn’t you realize we merged?