God is but a poster stolen by a couple of angels from a misogynist painter,
A view of the flesh from below, a roundless zero, a Chinese
Computer from the Han dynasty, a bottle of Hyperborean wine
That will make you blind and addicted to the inimical sounds of bestiaries.
Dogs with the teeth and eyes lost
Sprawl on the liquid roofs, bound to hear
Screams of prehistoric birds wrapped in the skies.
They don’t sense ghosts delivering dead butterflies
To the back door of the barbershop.
But it is certainly possible, they think,
To heal the shy by clipping God’s hair
In front of them. Would you listen to
The screech of the shears?
A door between a room with marble dolls
and a sliced river stinks at daybreak.
Crows regret they have never tasted
their favorite politicians before disappearing in the colorless sky.
Bloom, God says.
Fuck you, a flower replies.
in the end every angel is going to be dishonorably discharged
Your imaginary pets would let a paper napkin flutter
over the mountains destroyed by snow and clouds.
Mirrors are everywhere. Mirrors reflect the eyes of God
dissolved in tequila: one, two, three, four, twenty five,
sixteen, ninety seven, fifty eight… Sometimes mirrors forget
about everything they own, sometimes they sell it wholesale
to Hobby Lobby. All kinds of creatures disappear, mute.
Those insects you are complaining about
don’t need the night to hear stones
gingerly open to that clean-shaven dude who
has scattered the snow all over the earth and
is not going to shovel it, son of a bitch.
In fact, it is so silent here
that occasional travelers eat their shoes.
There are brooks in the valley I cannot see.
There are books in the house I cannot open.
I need pills that would help me to hide dying snakes and blackbirds from God.
In the wee hours grasses laugh on playgrounds.
Rains can’t return to the sky. Birds awaken
unsure if they are able to sing. Squirrels bite the clouds.
Cracked shoes on their shoulders, totems walk away.
Then children bring sand and water to someone
who doesn’t need anything, whose nails don’t grow anymore.
Squirrels bite the clouds. Car dealers bring sunscreen
and mosquitos to God. Time, my dear friends,
he tells them, time is nonsense
invented by two-legged rabbits
and herons of dog-eared water. Also,
I doubt that you are car dealers.
I saw huge temples across the river.
They reminded me of Moscow or Kadath in the cold waste.
Something sinister and beautiful by any means, but I thought
it was Toronto or another Canadian city. I don’t know why.
I thought we had to cross the river by boat.
But there was no pier, nothing,
just piles of snow drifting downstream.
At some point the pavement just went underwater.
And a dozen guys with shovels swaggered below the surface.
They talked to each other. One of them said that pigwignitwit
was the name of the berry God loved most of all.
Another one replied it’s BS.
They seemed to gulp something down from plastic bottles.
I don’t think it was air.
Suddenly people near me began to cross the water on foot.
The snow was burning slowly.
[The picture was taken on Museum Hill in Santa Fe.]
After watching the news about a distant war,
mating helicopters and suns split in twos
by the clubs of the savages, she comes out for a little walk
with her dog. Tree bark forms faces,
the trees themselves run away humming popular songs,
songs she is afraid of, ashamed to sing, to hear,
and God whispers to her: You must pray, my dear,
pray, but not to me. She doesn’t seem to pay attention.
I am too old to accept the male creator.
I know a bird is a muddy window to his headaches.
I’ve seen the list of people heavens asked to feed their toes to fish.
I’ve seen the list of vipers heavens asked to chew bubble gum.
Yes I know a bird is a muddy window to his headaches.
And a fish is always faithful to an earthworm.
And a pine is a proper song to forget a child under.
And weathervanes are good means to forgive the color of your eyes.
Abandoned buildings are rare in this town.
No one cares about the graves
Of the famous, beloved and feared.
Animals keep losing the sun;
Fallen leaves advertise it.
Now and then someone scribbles on the walls
random adverbs. From some places
You can see what Christians
Like to call God. It’s considered, though,
Too foppish to visit them. Or at least
A bad habit.
Birds with broken beaks leave
feathers on discolored porches, where no one
is going to pick them up, leave
lives, one after another,
in discolored skies, where God
can be likened to a rotten pineapple. Birds
never doubt the existence of death,
edible and insane.