blasphemy

blasphemy

 

silence has taken its toll. when the cows have followed us home we lifted their livestock legs and lowered them into the homes of the damned, our damned houses and carriages of carrion and clever feeling. when I sing hymns at church I can hear the bird calling my name in the corner saying that she is an angel and that I can sing jazz to the organ, telling me that the sacred name of god belongs in my bones and that the blood of a blizzard is only half of the spirit of god. oh god peace be with you. dear god will you bless god, will you help him out of my thumbtacks will you remove him from my mother’s heart that is blazing with the saddles of somnolence. I hear the crack of crusted fridays. I hear the wonders of prayer in the desert where the children of israel have promised their god that they will return the car in the morning, after they have naively dry-humped in the back seat. god, you know the sound of my jagged screams in the night, the dark night that woke up my wife and she spread blue over everything and the children plooshawed down the stairs and I walked out into the reeking garden and knelt down and scoured myself in the dirt and told you that the place where I broke my fists in half were not for you. I didn’t do it for you, god. I placed the bubbling breath of a fish on my waist and I said. this this this is for you god. you are the sound of my rudder, you are the sound of a flappy arm. I cut my watch in two for you. I witnessed the brethren threading you through the mailbox and then the sound of a cash register kept clicking in my ear-dreams and I wondered if there wasn’t any room left to question you god. you made me to question the way your uvula swings next to the moon. why god, why can’t I hear the sound of you clipping your nails. when will the beauty of your snoring rise in the back of my throat and pierce me with the fire of apples drowning in the ocean eve swam in. why does the rich man buy your paintings. god. you have been near my esophagus since I was a tot. you have worn my patience thin, with diets of debtors and debris and I have been away from the world for a time, at least until I have climbed into your armpit and tickled the shit out of your arsenal of testimonies. I can feel the ground growing. I can feel the mothers sneering at the sun rising, and I know that the heart of the children will turn to their fathers once they are done whisping the eggs out of the sheep who are following the shepherd to a baritone concert that features the same song that we sang last week before dinner and after heaven. oh, god tell me there is room for classic rock in heaven. tell me that there isn’t a tonality or modality that won’t be touched by thy holy spirit. god, bless the hip-hop, bless the youtube, bless the mother who rubs rust in her children’s eyes. In your many mansioned afterlife put me in a small room with thoreau and fine cheese, god. put me in a room without a window with kafka, show me where you keep your good wine, the alcohol that gets our blood running. god what good are grapes in the afterlife after all the sacraments have been passed and the deacons grow into light fixtures. I want to know what sex is like in outer space with a body that can’t die. you must have had sex on every planet that you made. you won’t declare any planet good until that post coital moment where you roll over and look at your wife and say ‘yeah, this planet works. wouldn’t you say, honey buns.’ because you, god, actually put honey on her ass, and spent three years licking it clean, because your sundays are long and your tongue is long and your patience is long, and I can’t imagine what kind of kissing occurs between two gods, when they lay their bodies upon each other and just rock with perfect, so self assured of perfection “oh that kiss was perfect. yes that flesh-grab was perfect. oh you are perfect.” and I can’t imagine what a perfect insult would be, and I wonder if you even mete out perfect insults god. god god god insult me, or would I implode from the psychosis that would ensue. is that how you’ve killed every person on this earth, with a quick and whispered insult. it explains the gaping mouth and wide eyes—death, that harried and disheveled look of confusion. god I can’t seem to figure out your language. I know that it is foreign or that it tastes like water. I can’t stay elevated long enough to hear the gustatory sound of problematic realtors selling lots near your mansion. don’t you like our how we plow the snow. or are you just as tiny as I am on this small planet. and, god, tell mother that I love her. tell her that it would be nice to her from her once in a while, tell her that I’ve written many letters and she hasn’t responded. could you send a little package of cherries, just so I know that you are there. son, I think I heard you say once, your father is never coming back. he’s dead now. the neighbors killed your father. they won’t be bringing him back.

 

slander

 

I hear the crack of crusted fridays. I hear the wonders of prayer in the desert where the children of israel have promised their god that they will return the car in the morning, after they have naively dry-humped in the back seat. god, you know the sound of my jagged screams in the night, the dark night that woke up my wife and she spread blue over everything and the children plooshawed down the stairs and I walked out into the reeking garden and knelt down and scoured myself in the dirt and told you that the place where I broke my fists in half were not for you. I didn’t do it for you, god. I placed the bubbling breath of a fish on my waist and I said. this this this is for you god. you are the sound of my rudder, you are the sound of a flappy arm. I cut my watch in two for you. I witnessed the brethren threading you through the mailbox and then the sound of a cash register kept clicking in my ear-dreams and I wondered if there wasn’t any room left to question you, god. you made me to question the way your uvula swings next to the moon. why god, why can’t I hear the sound of you clipping your nails. when will the beauty of your snoring rise in the back of my throat and pierce me with the fire of apples drowning in the ocean eve swam in. why does the rich man buy your paintings. god. you have been near my esophagus since I was a tot. you have worn my patience thin, with diets of debtors and debris and I have been away from the world for a time, at least until I have climbed into your armpit and tickled the shit out of your arsenal of testimonies. I can feel the ground growing. I can feel the mothers sneering at the sun rising, and I know that the heart of the children will turn to their fathers once they are done whisping the eggs out of the sheep who are following the shepherd to a baritone concert that features the same song that we sang last week before dinner and after heaven. oh, god, tell me there is room for classic rock in heaven. tell me that there isn’t a tonality or modality that won’t be touched by thy holy spirit. god, bless the hip-hop, bless the youtube, bless the mother who rubs rust in her children’s eyes. In your many mansioned afterlife put me in a small room with thoreau and fine cheese, god. put me in a room without a window with kafka, show me where you keep your good wine, the alcohol that gets our blood running. god, what good are grapes in the afterlife after all the sacraments have been passed and the deacons grow into light fixtures. I want to know what sex is like in outer space with a body that can’t die. you must have had sex on every planet that you made. you won’t declare any planet good until that post-coital moment where you roll over and look at your wife and say ‘yeah, this planet works. wouldn’t you say, honey buns.’ because you, god, actually put honey on her ass, and spent three years licking it clean, because your sundays are long and your tongue is long and your patience is long, and I can’t imagine what kind of kissing occurs between two gods, when they lay their bodies upon each other and just rock with perfect, so self assured of perfection “oh that kiss was perfect. yes that flesh-grab was perfect. oh you are perfect.” and I can’t imagine what a perfect insult would be, and I wonder if you even mete out perfect insults, god. god, insult me, or would I implode from the psychosis that would ensue. is that how you’ve killed every person on this earth, with a quick and whispered insult. it explains the gaping mouth and wide eyes—death, that harried and disheveled look of confusion. god, I can’t seem to figure out your language. I know that it is foreign or that it tastes like water. I can’t stay elevated long enough to hear the gustatory sound of problematic realtors selling lots near your mansion. don’t you like our how we plow the snow. or are you just as tiny as I am on this small planet. god, silence has taken its toll.