Once I drew the conclusion that love is a loosely
officiated charade, I pooh-poohed any notion
of ever being worthy of redemption. I felt I’d
broken just about every rule any God had set out
and didn’t deserve their rewards. Nevertheless
I needed something to lessen the pain my broken
heart constantly dwelled on. I tried fashioning
my own God out of brain waves, but that was
nothing but a dud. I bought heavy work boots
and trampled vacant lots like Paul Bunyan just
to let off a little steam. I spoke several languages
fluently to myself, which made me feel a bit better.
I employed carrier pigeons to convey messages
to my cosmic wife, but she never returned them.
I often stood erect in my private Eden for hours
taking notes on invisible angels. I would chronicle
their every action, name and classify each one.
Paratroopers fell like fireflies in big bright helixes
carrying payloads from continents I may one day
want to try on for size. Why had the street become
so sloshy, and how was it the sun had grown dull?
I got to thinking perhaps the porpoises deserved
a break. But I could not provide it myself because
I held no sway over nature, similar to dipping my
toe into an inferno. I felt guilty about trespassing
sacred ground. But then nothing is sacred anymore,
so you couldn’t rightly accuse me of encroachment.
Oddly, I became popular due to my unusually dour
demeanor, and the press was after me day after day,
hounding me, collected at my front gate. All I wanted
was to be left alone in my sculpture garden to chisel
serenity of the very highest degree from dark matter.
When I go to sleep tonight I think I’m going to dream
about shooing pterodactyls away with redwood trees.