Hey babe, I’m horny.
Wanna fuck? I promise I’ll
last longer than — oops.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yeah, it’s short, but I
swear there are enough
syllables in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Uh, uh, uh , uh, yes,
yes, yes, uh, oh, yes, yes, yes,
now! Now! NOW! Ah…zzzz.
that the people who are most worried about online theft and unfair use of their work are usually the ones who have the least to worry about?
The sound of footsteps in the kitchen just woke me up. It wasn’t Gary, and Isaac is out of town. It was in this apartment (the linoleum creaked) and not up or down stairs.
I heard it AFTER I woke up and was sitting up as well. An investigation revealed nothing.
I’ve suspected a presence in the apartment for a while — weird issues with lights being turned on and off, etc. — but this was the first thing I’ve noticed that sounded distinctly human.
Ghosts — if you want to call them that — don’t bother me in the least. I find them oddly comforting, to tell you the truth. I have no idea what they are (that whole “lingering departed spirits” thing doesn’t ring true to me) but the idea that we might share space with others is intriguing. It makes me hopeful for the other wonders that may be out there still.
Walking around the block,
I get a whiff of my cigarette-tainted
fingers, and once again the phrase
“the left hand of God”
appears before me.
God’s left hand
doesn’t smell of anything.
It’s as if all traces of creation
had been deodorized in the eons since.
And when I’m in something
that feels like God’s grasp
I squirm pleasantly the way I squirm
before I come: something transcendent
is on the way.
I think of music as God’s finger
tracing the pulse in my neck
long enough to stop my heart
in time with a larger orchestra.
I do not understand
why I am obsessed
with God’s hands. I do not think of God
as man, woman, animal, anything
with hands really. I am not even sure
if God is sentient as we understand that;
still, the ideas of grip and touch
bring God to me the way a stream
unsteadily carries the leaf to its resting place.
I prepare to toss a cigarette into the street
after the last drag and I can smell
it on my hands as I draw the smoke into me.
This is divine if anything is: the power
to use, eliminate, discard. If it leaves a touch
of itself on me, it is by design. God’s hands
know the difference between me
and the evidence of my acts.
I do not see God’s body or face
in these moments. Hands, gnarled and
calloused, appear in the grey sky
or come out of the stars. If God has arms
they are not the extensions of these hands.
If God sees and directs these hands then God
does it without the use of sinew and nerve.
God may be hands alone.
God the utility.
God the tool.
God the fingerprints of faith.
The thumbs, the pointers, the middle fingers,
the rings, the humble pinkies. The palms cupped to carry
with the meat of the heels buffering the contents.
Whose hands are these I see before me?
I do not know what it is that I am feeling.
Dark Matter 