I’m bored again,
dear God,
you big beardy bodyguard
parked on your cumulus,
captain and protector of the planet
(so the Pope keeps typing onto his computer),
so why catapult catastrophe,
why visit our writhing lives with visions of
hefty thick filth shifting from
human life to life and shore to shore,
why? Through hubris
or something? Nothing here
absorbs me, obvious advice just
clogs me up as I jumble towards
new subversive adventures.
Hopefully a breakthrough will
explode me out of the depths
of upside-down chilly introspection
and channel my thoughts onto
the eighth or ninth rung
of redemption, chatting
with Tsar Nicholas perhaps, mixing
absinthe and kvass, about the absurd width
of mellowing, welcoming,
nourishing young
possibility.
