Gideon is the author of the God whose cadence
is a metronome.
He beats like a pretty little tempo-clock.
Twice reflected, I saw him in the glossy shadows.
I told him his Mover, unmoved,
didn't move me.
Truth be told I read a Book that told me the
truth about stories.
I knew I had discovered the antidote.
I withdrew because I had recovered her petticoat,
ugly-raisin hands opened up from the sky and
stanza by stanza, fell billowing folds of clothes.
The protagonist asked for an endless supply of baked beans, and comforting
only to be soaking, pressure cooked in his own diction.
After the flood, only analogy was left to the plot. We skeptics, believers
analyzed the crisis
which untangled like a silky, gossamer strand that fell out
of mouths like French
I walked through the books until I reached a climax,
and in the ecstasy of the agony of someone else's lord, I watched the
world fall apart, in unison
all of the houses fell down, all of the Figs stood up.
I felt the overflow of the hyperbole, the chaos, the end.
I, stone iconography, laid on my back and recited all of the myths.
I came. I came, God. In this rendition,
I became God.