As consciousness ascends
the grin of the devil lingers.
My down comforter and fluffy pillows
smell like smoke.
I had intended to repair the tattered flag in the corner
but I see now that it cloaks the evil twins:
Blind allegiance and false promises.
Riches are blinders, not blessings.
A small plane drones through the dawn’s early light
strewing herds of animals hither and yon
for the pleasure of predators at the top of the chain.
“This is better than husking corn,” one of them says.
The corpses sanctify the trampled sod, now saturated with blood.
The resulting meals may justify giving thanks
but the trophies are pure vanity.
War is the thing to prepare for,
bodies the thing required.
“Not this pig,” wrote the poet
before passing to the place of all poems.
We nod to the sentiment, slicing ham
and chopping bacon bits for the salad.
Bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts…
runs on automatic replay
as I watch people refuse to sign the petition
for reproductive rights.
I’m not fooled by false equivalencies. I sign.
To live is brief. To die is certain.
This lonely insight flays the rays of morning
into the arc of promised justice
I barely believe in anymore.
“Wake up, little one. You have Now,” the Rainbow says.
“And the gossamer of Indigo.”
“But Indigo has begun to unravel,” I protest.
“And I’ve lived too long as a parable to engage with Now.”
Silence.
I polish surfaces in the kitchen
hoping for an accurate reflection.
But the granite is forest green;
the dishwater, troubled; the beer, murky.
The Distortion laughing up at me is God.
“I hope you didn’t pull yourself together on my account,” I say.
“Of course I did,” the Distortion answers.
“No one can live on Indigo alone.”
Short visits with an honest God 