God is Not a Man

Sleep, we are not dead
Dream, we are aware and drained
And I know the vain moth survives this cold.
Oblivion, that foolish cocktail
The liquid was warm but stung
And swam circles in your gut.
You regret the spiraling nausea that
Turns and swoons invisible on the dirty wall.
I know that God is not a man
But for one second to touch his face
And pay the price of confusing the divine
With the dim curls of her oily hair.
I pay but do not say how.

As the week turns the soggy food decays in the sink .
A tree bends down to push you into the snow. Laughing.
Somewhere a man talks of Art and Law,
Their impending marriage is a hushed affair.
And doomed I believe, a union punished with sclerotic verse.
Vitiated hortatory that falls on my discerning ears.
They close at the tasteless and bland fare. Unimpressed.
The stories he sold were old and full of wooden figures.
I know the poet that was made of stone
He sat in a garden all alone.

When the graying world wists
And lines up to shuffle glumly through
The turpitude that rains down on this shameful lot.
I think of monks thrashing with nettles
The scarified backs of their fellow believers.
This is why I do not believe.

I do not fly a straight line.
I do not sleep, I am never awake.
My visions are penetrated with sickening realities.
I look through many windows, some look back.
I garnish my clay with diamonds
And laugh quite simply.

Once I looked too far and saw the back of my head.
Now I listen for my thoughts on the radio.
The novel I wrote last year is broadcast on the news.
The world coagulates day by day and it is as if I were God.
Because of course I am.
And so are you.

When is a prophet out of work ?
I think when people start listening to her.


Rex Nemorensis