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.