The priest droned on,
a short passage
from Micah had some
Within the coffin
we suspect Agnes too
grew even more impatient,
wanting final rest,
wanting the party to begin,
hating the tears.
Later, with wine flowing,
somewhere in the gray sky
I imagine her knowing wink.
In my dream God came to me,
said “look, I need a break, some
real time away from the job, not just
one day a week, where it’s all I can do
to keep up, but a serious vacation,
call it a Sabbatical if you want.
I need someone to hold the fort
and was wondering if you had
any interest. Just don’t do anything
too perverse and pretend, at least,
to listen to their endless pleas.”
The gravamen, the omniness of it all,
the chance to wildly stir the karmic stew
to gain that exquisite revenge
that practicality and reality deny.
Or peace even, universal, the
answer to a thousand prophesies,
there with no thunder, lightening,
mushrooming clouds, just there
like a fog that creeps
into San Francisco Bay.
That would do it, shock the hell
out of them, so used to strife,
petty and global, here one minute
gone the next, Eden, at least until
old Darwin and Malthus
kick in and they slowly starve.
No thanks, I’ll pass.
Jonah, what color
is the sun at dawn?
Black as the night preceding it
Jonah, what is the odor
That of rotting rincinus
Jonah, what shall we say
to a crying baby?
The gates of Ninevah will be open
Jonah, when God calls
how should we answer him?
Call him sheol
Jonah, we are soon to die,
how shall we face it?
Crawl into the belly of the beast