This is about a god I met, once,
as a kid in a memory of memory
where anything anymore is subject to revision.
He was old, petrified, big, immense
taller than mountains.
I climbed a beanstalk to reach his kingdom
and shuddered at the sight
bearded and bellied
robed in all white
he was placing knights, bishops, and pawns
in their respectful places.
The bishops in the temples.
The knights in the tanks and the planes.
And the pawns in the fields and the jails.
He told the king he would grant him
mercy and love, and the tender obedience of women,
if he did just one thing-
he wasn’t allowed
to say what that thing was.
He only nodded and bowed
and practiced the grips and tokens,
he memorized his new name
and that of his queen
for she was behind him
wrapped up tight and bound
in motherhood and laundry and
cooking, unable to listen,
her ears all full of a million grandfathers cocks
that they called doctrine and covenant
spirit and the
he eventually went on to fuck himself in the ass
to make a man-child out of himself
before time existed
in my memories where I remember learning
that’s how the world was,
how the universe existed,
and while I had no concept of a universe,
he did tell me that I was the center of it-
him in my mouth
on my tongue
(comment on this poem)