Saturday, September 19, 2009

Symptons of God

Just raise your arm and I'll remove the rib. It won't be that bad. I'll do it fast.

She busied herself tracing the scars on her fingers. Burned out lanterns in empty rooms. She wrote her letters to god. In the big, cursive script of a a child yet to encounter the devil.

She asked her whys and her hows. Just as certain that she was the first to try as all the billions prior. Jump ropes the voices muttered as she examined the ink on her aging letters to him.

Gods are like gravity. They pull us down. When we need it and when we don't. Fists to big to resist. Full of ladders that always fall short of the heavens.

She dreams of when he was a child. A lost infant overwhelmed with the world he would create. Born into the nothing he would make real.

From the blood of his mother's womb. The child spat forth. Eager to conquer the despot called time. Who was she. The woman that birthed us god. Why does no one ask. Where he is. Where he comes from. Why he's so hard to find.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Perpetual Motion

It's supposed to hurt. Yes. That much. This is Disneyland for the consciousness. Villains and all. You don't get to just wake up. You have to survive the nightmare. Learn the math. Skin plus skin is an atrocious sum. You don't see god. You just see am excuse. To stay the same.

The zipper on her lips coming undone. In a flourish of blood. Each word wounded. And every bandage too thin. As she tries herself on once again. With Lucifer in her pocket. And Jesus in her fist. She talks in minus and listens in division.

Solving quickly for x. Selling off her gods for the comfort of demons.

God comes in snapshots. Pictures process the flesh. Empty pens stab the blankness. Crippled gods on their last confession. Admit we are nothing. Salvation suffers through the pasteurization of skin. It's too hot in heaven to die. It's too cold in this world to live.

I dream of Beethoven. I wake up deaf. I can't hear god. But I can read his lips.