Poetry

Chill Days, 12 (317.)

It’s been a three coffee kind of day,
and that’s okay,
’cause I met God tonight.
They traveled in a Domino’s delivery box
and looked suspiciously like pizza
topped with pepperoni and bacon.
The bread part checks out –
God’s child is made of bread,
and I like to think
that the New Testament God
would be cool with that bread
being a daughter.
J can be whoever They want to be.
God’s presence can be too much for some folks,
and it’s certainly deadly to me,
when They appear in a Domino’s delivery box,
and my diabetic body needs insulin to break down that bread.
As I pulled the syringe from my stomach,
I bled,
and I accidentally
lowered my sweater onto that liquid red.
Nothing some towels and water can’t fix.
Still, it has been a three coffee kind of day,
and although that’s okay,
it’s rare.
My hands get jittery as I reach
for another dismembered piece
of the spawn of God,
bread and meat and veggies all,
this is my body and my blood
and a bit of my soul,
how do you like the ranch dressing?
I think that’s J’s spirit.
I soaked Their body in Their spirit,
the holy ranch dressing ghost,
and everything was inside out
as the ghost became the shell
and the bread become the treat
and the body went through Hell
and now They all meet inside of me,
God, Their Spawn, Their Spirit, all capitalized
out of reverence and shaking
hungry joy.
The coffee might be
the devil that tempts me,
and it’s a Biblical reunion
all up in my belly.
In a few hours I’ll remember Revelations
as I take
an apocalyptic trip to the restroom.

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