Long Ago, Perhaps Again A chair, small, christening a corner, wall, police came later, well behind the boy, you’d popped his bubble, premature, red package on the doorstep, some drops lead to it, you didn’t even know, you never knew, you couldn’t know that he was someone, rather something like a fallen rock, a twig wrapped in a crimson leaf, a shaman took your presence, left him there upon the ground, red snow lay everywhere, limbs stunted, frozen with his face a twist of nose and fractured mouth grown soft from suckling air, the sky had made him wrinkled like a shrunken sweater, knitting needle like another limb, and there he died and we who came before him wheeled you away, then nurses came, wrapped up your goddamned blessing, spirited away and you were clean again. Back to the Drawing BoardGullibility turned me to a Cynic, belief made me a bad Cynic, now I’m gullible about my Cynicism. Beware of isms, God is not an ism, religion is. My Cynicism is a fallacy just like religion, just like killing for religion. God did not write a book on killing and cares little for what we do. We are here and God is there, our maker, perhaps. Perhaps God made us, perhaps God made us nothing like himself. Of this I am not cynical, if God made us, he made us too ugly and now he’s a wee bit verklempt about rectifying his mistake. In Response to a New Orleans Palmetto BugI know who you are
because you’ve traveled, haven’t you? I’ve seen you when the lights go on, midnight, three a.m. waiting with those damn antennae twitching, the bully in the hall approaching. I’d rather have you, you of the resounding crunch, reminding me to always wear hard slippers so I know I have a soul, can send you popping in the wee hours, giant that you are. The tiny one is the one to fear, he never comes alone, apocalypse of Germany, piles of zombie soldiers swarm after the bombs fall.
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