“There is no diet to reduce
the weight of judgment,”
said the very wise, very glib,
very fat man.  

He folded into his girth,
enrobed and swollen,
took up an entire bench,
nodded at the condemned
who shrank down,
tried to look as small
as they felt.

As he handed down sentences
he thought of porkchops, potatoes,
port, anything at all he could consume
once he got out of here.  What happened
to the small ones he crushed here
was unimportant.  What was important

was how full he wanted to feel
as soon as possible
upon completion
of his duties.  

The fur of air
on my forearm
reminds me of caves
and forests I think
I must have known.

Is it mink, or is it
bear or bison —
perhaps cougar or
tiger?

I have to admit
that perhaps
it’s a fat domestic cat
I’m recalling,

or a poodle
asleep on the cushion
of my big couch.

It’s animal presence,
that’s all I know.  Even Fido
and Fluffy were
wild once

and maybe feeling this
is the first step
back toward ferality
for all of us.

I know this family
of miserable dolls
who walk around wondering
if you can still get into heaven
when you’ve never believed in God.

These dolls like to walk around
wondering stuff.  They go all
fishy if they’re too certain
for too long, start smelling
the place up.  They gotta question,

gotta walk. Dolls
eat too much, stink, pray
vainly (they think) for salvation,
argue about who they’re praying to,
don’t care where they kneel

as long as everyone sees them
kneeling. Do you believe, they say to 
each other.  Do you believe?
I’ll get there first, they say to each other.
They don’t even notice me

standing there, my nose turned up
at the fishy smell, at how miserable
they seem on their knees pleading
and scrapping and praying.  Do you believe,
they ask each other.  And I’m standing right there

the whole time!  
It’s hysterical, ironic, you name it.
It’s a doll festival of cluelessness.
It’s not gonna get them anywhere.
And I’m not going to tip my hand.