Gods come and gods go
Gods shapeshift and shit shapes
Afraid of yesterday's red sweat
Under a back-city olive tree.
Dreams are not a warm blanket
Or a cozy home on another street,
But an orange flower spurting
Forth on a cold November day.
This day once was Saturn's day
Commandeered by faint subjects
With too much dirt clogged between
Their swollen calloused toes;
And once this day smiled with teeth
Brown and Whole and Musical. People
Dancing hand in hand around bright
Flames eliciting unfeigned smiles
Wrapped round and around bright
Sparks prodding silent brittle feet,
Hopping without cause and without
Merit. Merit is not a god's homage.
My dehydrated alcoholic brain misfires
In slow spurts of garbled words
And disconnected strains of thoughts
mired in unsympathetic virtual merit.
Upon this distant pantanomic scene
I raise my brown glass and toast
Quietly to the unheard divine voices
Ruminating amongst themselves.
These voices shatter our porcelain hearts
Like lyrics from drums and guitars
Screaming for one soul to stare and hear
Their trampled song among the wordless throng.
At what point do you recognize the
broken face in the mirror, and at what
point do you cry instead of laugh,
weighed down with myopic soggy eyes?
This Christmas wine weighs my wet body down.
Matthew died tonight with a smile.
Words convey neither more nor less.
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