Blood Feathers

Waking up on a white concrete roof

behind a billboard—

shadows of a pigeon wing arc in profile, gigantic.

Think they are huge envelopes to hold me—

see red flow through the quills,

blood red heaven arms.

~

God isn't mysterious,

he is a pissy crank prone to fits of narcissism and vengeance.

Last month, I wrote a poem with the always-new idea that

God is dead, God is missing, God never was—

He could have made the point with much more subtlety—

someone waving me in on the highway,

or with much more elegance—

the neon lights of Hollywood Boulevard

shutting down to let the aurora bourealis

settle along the rooftops,

languid, weaving feathers.

~

It seems the less I believe in God,

the more biblical life around me becomes.

~

The front door kicked in—

thick rectangle of darkness

swallows the room in shape of noise.