Poetry

Asterisk

I remember what our old god was like.
He was beautiful.
If you ask anyone today, they won't remember him,
but I do.

He sat on top of a hill back then,
back when we worshipped Him,
and everything was good.
He told Us how lovely we were -
the capital Us, capital We,
the capital you never see anymore,
only referring to a One, to a He,
to a Me.

We gathered. We hunted, We did
everything he said. And He sat,
on that hill, massive, long hair,
beautiful, beautiful eyelashes,
and we climbed
atop his head
and laid out bounties there.

Not sacrifices, not bloodshed,
but fruit, jewels, rocks,
really,
anything we could find.
It always made Him happy.

Where did He go?

I still look at that hill sometimes,
and wonder where He went.
All that's left
is the crater where he sat
and the dam,
the dam that They filled with cement.

Barbeque

Two men sit at a barbeque together.
I am one of them.

He looks at me, slowly, through the dim haze
of the fire ahead. I look at him,
and something is communicated.

This is just a friendly get together,
and really,
we should know better.

He burrows his head onto my shoulder,
and I am to understand,
that there are some things we cannot do,
except under the dim light
of the fire from a barbeque.

Swansong

My name's Rickie.
I'm 21, and I'm from Tennessee.
I work at the 7-11
down the road
from that big junction
and I like to drive around big trucks
with my buddies, Tim, Big J, and Lou
on a Sunday.

Once day,
combing through my magazines,
stuffed under the drawer of that shitty cash register
- I knew no-one would notice,
this place's a shithole -
picking up a cigarette
and making to light it
I saw God.

He was a man. I could tell.
He had 3 heads, and no eyes,
Like a snake, Hydra.
But each time I looked, I swore
he looked just a little different,
chest bare, silky smooth,
like some kinda freaky Ken Doll.
He was in front of me, there,
My glassy eyes, unlit cigarette,
unworthy cigarette,
moist with my spit.

Maybe it was just the midnight blues
coming to me through some deity like
I never seen before.

But I still think of that night.

I picked up my pen, ball-point,
and draw his face in my notebook.
I'm still workin' at 7-11,
so if you wanna see me, sometime, or the like,
Lemme know.
Rickie.

I didn't see anything for a while after that.
Typical, those things you wanna see most
float and flutter away in the wind
like a balloon let go just a few
childhood years too early.

It only came to me at midnight,
graveyard shift,
sun coming up through the horizon,
coffee cup stale and sticking to the counter,
his face.
His unface, gazing at me
with the sweetest kinda sorrow.

"Why?" I asked.

"I might not be able to take you from this place,
But maybe
I'll make it a little better for you.
Just this once."

His lips touched mine.
He tasted of old strawberry chapstick,
just like the one
tucked in my
shitty
cash register drawer.

The Angel

One night, I met an angel.

"Look at me." he said, and I looked.

His face was of eyes and tendrils, of natural and unnatural, observing me even if I looked away.

"Is this the face of God?" I asked, and he nodded.

"As much of a God as there will ever be."

I patted the grass next to me. He blinked, and I patted it again, prompting him to sit with me.

"Look at the sky, angel." I said. "Is this where you came from?"

"I cannot," he said, and when he realised this prompted further inquiry, "I cannot look up."

"Well, we'll have to do something about that then, won't we?"

I picked him up by his porcelain spine, and held his eyes to the stars.

We stared at the constellations together as he clasped his hands in mine.

"Why offer me such kindness?" he said. Tears filled his eyes.

"Because." I replied, stroking his back carefully. "Because you're us."

"Angels are people, really. People that look a lot different and live a lot longer than us, but people."

"And people deserve kindness. So rest in my arms."

"We can look all night."

The Viano

You play an instrument
That can only be played
with four hands.

Its melody sweet;
its tunes dulcet;
but it must be played
with four hands.

Your two hands try
to grasp at it,
get that hold
at anything,
anything meaningful.

But it cannot play.
Its tunes can only be played
with four hands.

Things I Like

I like it when you look at me
I like it when you don't stop
I like it when you look at me

Hold on.

Excuse me?
Could you blink a little,
please?
For me?

It's a bit creepy
staring at me like that.

Hello?

I can see you're alive.

Why won't you move?

You breathe, but you won't stop
looking at me

But you won't speak to me,
either.

Please,
speak to me.

I like it when you look at me.