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.
