No wonder we create gods to venerate,
only to eventually knock them down.
If I thought it would help,
I'd call for lamb's blood too.
Children leer and throw fruit loops like palm leaves
while their parents piss in the gas tanks
of unredeemed foreign cars;
addicts curled in the fetal position
on back patios offer prayers
and promises of penance to angels
dripping wet from the latest bloodbath,
and absent mothers shed martini tears
as their daughters lie in hospital beds
unable to walk and bawling.
They are all conspiring against us.
I have thrown the old gypsy woman's dice
and divined the lines in my face to discover
whether the planets are truly aligned against us.
Solar flares and tsunamis are false signs
of the end of things; which means
we will endure another 100 million cycles
around the sun without ever knowing
what it means when two pieces
of the same cosmic soul are joined
and go super nova.
This is the day we bury our expectations
wrapped in cheese cloth
swaddled in the guilt of our inequities:
proof positive that it's entirely too easy to kill god
when we make the mistake of giving him
a human face.