God is reclining on his swivel chair in some mid-century Heaven,
stoned out of his gourd. God is listening to the same record
on repeat. He didn’t even have to buy it at the store’s discount rack
because obviously He is God. Everything in His room is Upper
Case. The bookshelves of Millennia, the ceiling that goes on Forever.
God spins another tale of conquest. His guests have nowhere else
to be. He creates fable after fable. He yaps so much the turntable
spins again. The thin needle of the record never needs replacing
because if it wasn’t clear, this is Heaven. This room. Me and you.
Downstairs, the earth is burning. But up here we’ve got it made.
I don’t even know what time it is. Kairos. The right time. God’s time.
I tell God if I were God I’d change the sound: more C sharp, D minor.
I tell God if it were up to me the party would have started later,
once everyone could make it from their day job. He looks at me
in that capital way like He is trying to convey Gravity without
the stand-in of these cheap light-weight words but my tongue
turns into a butterfly pre-escaping its cocoon. My tongue needs to
fly,
but it’s wet, heavy as a dead thing made of meat. My pork-tongue
slides down the crevice of my palate. Goes silent. God likes silence.
It’s so commanding. It hums like a metronome counting nothing
but the ridiculous construct of time. I don’t understand anything
anymore. I don’t know how any of us make it out of here alive.
