God scans through the texts of Tolstoy For the secrets of the universe While the archangels at the table Dispute loudly, who is worse – Was it Van Gogh, or Picasso?
“I was far worse than both of them!” Says a self-righteous Mozart While Beethoven starts spitting. “Oh, don’t you two start!”
Warns a tipsy-stern Gabriel From behind a tall lager While Plato scrawls circles Like a half-a-dime auger.
“Silence!” God booms, Though his eyes are quivering With unshed tears, And Dickinson is shivering With the draft of early evening.
St. Peter is resting, Feet propped on a chair, Before returning to his post, And God lets them all stay there
By his side as he thumbs Through War and Peace’s last pages While the fire burns low And the storm outside rages.
Wilde laughs uproariously At the news while he cooks. “How was it?” Michael asks As God closes the book. God takes a moment Before his answer, confessing, “It wasn’t too bad, I think, But far too depressing.”
My eyes are burnt. I don't pray to those few high school gods. I betray the teachings of my mother. I pull out of my pocket a pack of cigarettes. my silence is lost. I talk like antibiotics, but tell me can I still feast in an abnormal modesty?
From so far away the fairground music fades the carney's call echoes. Were you sure you wanted to pay those pennies for that stick of horehound candy? String a song of sixpences together And **** at them until they turn your mouth blood red To hide your broken lips.
In the double wide that gapes into the evening With its yawning broken windows. The dingy feeling in your eyes Refuses to fade with the dust And the touch of sticky plastic stars on your bedroom ceiling Keeps you company In the bitter watches of the night
Jesus and John watch your father from the living room wall, As the last flickers of a camel’s Pentecost flame Are extinguished on your arm. Branded, you lie stained in sin Your child eyes asking St. Peter Why the gate is shut. He breaks bread across the table With your bones crushed to a fine flour, Mixed with wine. This is my body. This is my blood.
Half remembered clichés dance along the pier. The divide between, Sweet salty land and unending depths. My talking dolphins sing a tune, Unsettling and threatening. Feed scraps from the dinner table by my curly haired gambler. I only see him at that old dollhouse, Cracked and weathered by the Sea. It insists on knocking on our red door and staying for supper. So it can beat us at throwing pennies in a cup Plunk...plunk...plunk
Had a dream and it made me really happy so I wrote a poem about it. It was a pretty weird dream truth be told.