Airplane God


All these tiny trees below

are like arrows

directing a scene.


Don’t look down

they say

look up.


There are giraffes

on my pink shirt

urging me to drop a turd

on somebody’s head

in those far-below mountains.


A little devilish.


I want to roll the window down.

I want to stick my fingers in the air

into God’s cloudy hair

stroke it back

run my fingers through thinning kinks

until they are stiff with ice.


Already I can see the pattern

of icicles, needles hanging

from each stiffened finger

as if this is memory

rather than imagination

playing out like a sensory picture

in my closed eyes


I see

God is going bald.

I Will Definitely Read What You Write Here

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