God is a good ol’ fellow, a shallow grave for some. For others he’s
just a burnt bridge. For us, well, we simply believe he or she is a weatherperson
or the guy that checks our water usage at the end of the month.
1. There was a clanking of milk bottles at the back door. It was the fifties
when milk was pure white with a disturbing plug of cream on top and ladies
wore dresses to vacuum. God wore a uniform and he looked fabulous.
2. Four horses on the beach, lightning strikes them all.
3. Someone is torn asunder
and we don’t recognize him or her until we
see the tattoo on a wingbone that says Property of Heaven.
Heaven is always tricky. Some say there are no men in heaven. (See what we
God himself rarely speaks of heaven. It would be like a drop of milk speaking
from a bucket of milk.
If God had a partner, a Hectorish kind of fellow, or say Hector was God, would
it be right to violate his parking privileges? Zoom around on his vacuum and
wreak havoc onboard international flights?
Conjecture as we might, it’s all such tenderness.
4. I like to walk down to the river and sit across from the ruins. This week
the river was trying to get into my shoes. First I laughed and then I ran back
toward the barbed wire.
5. I ran into mice running from cats running from dogs. Starbucks was closed
on Sunday for renovation and discourse. God ran out of coffee and cream.
6. I knew that was wrong, that somewhere there must be an inexhaustible supply
of coffee beans for God, in some vault next to crisp bills with bald eagles
who have gone all cramped and hoarse and blind from the dark.
Four horses on a beach gallop toward the shore. Horse One whinnies
while the other three vanish into the horizon. The preceding thoughts concern
the problem of glare and trajectory—the godless line between two points
that converge into one in the distance. In retrospect, God is tan.
Once upon a time he was born in a desert, his jaw was manly, his eyes the color
Once upon the other time she was born again, a yawn of a deity, petite as a
On the seventh day they made frosting.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010