Airplane God

Standard

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.

Advertisements

I Will Definitely Read What You Write Here

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s