As a child, everything was free, real,
like early spring air.
Birds were infinite
and could fly to heaven.
Now air is stiff wood,
and birds only **** on cars.
I took out the dagger to take a stab.
I yawned.
They fawned over the shops on Bond Street.
I yawned
We drank Cristal Brut.
I yawned.
The lights of Times Square dazzled.
I yawned.
The toast crumbs were ******
I yawned.
The people prayed.
I yawned.
I asked God,
“How do I settle this?”
“Give me your sock,” God said.
So I did.
“Sever all your limbs.”
So I did, one by one.
God stuffed the legs, arms,
and drippings into my sock,
blood-soaking it.
And with that cocktail sock
God smacked me
and sat silent.
“Now what?”
God yawned.