BAG CITY

God wants you to stop fucking around. Jesus thinks you make too much noise telling neighbors they breathe too loudly. Mary made pancakes and sausage and ate them while asking you why you buy tight jeans and drink so much diet soda. Joseph locked his shop when he saw you come through the door. God sees everything although his head has been in his palms since your 15th birthday. The angels don't smoke your brand and make fun of your wing tips when you dress for a date. Satan keeps telling The Grim Reaper to keep your name at the bottom of his list. God keeps sending you messages to check your shit in the form of traffic tickets, firings, divorces and lost bar fights. God loves all his children you keep saying and yet all your shit keeps rolling down hill. You are the subject of an ongoing betting pool between all the angels and demons. That can't be good, you know?

This poem has not been written but rests between the synapses when words alone cannot carry the weight of the heart you wear on your sleeve. This poem mocks you as you try to arrange syllables and make them march in a lovely line like a battalion of ballet dancers leaping and arching their backs as they carry one another center stage to illustrate your constant exclamation, "..darling, I love you, won't you be mine til the end of time...?" This poem will come to you before you finish your first cup of coffee and patted your pants pocket to make sure the car keys are still there, this poem will marinate while the neighbor who is still partying since last night yells the lyrics to Tell Laura I Love Her The stairs will seem to sag in the middle and the clouds will be the color of an oilman's rag that morning before this poem gets written. It will be that kind of day when no one tips their hat, the people you pass will seem to be sinking into their overcoats as they cros

your eyes get bright as two Bic lighters when the songs get sad at the end of the bar, you sigh, oh please, make your woe as tragic as the time she left me standing under the oak tree taking a long, frustrated leak as she slid into the driver's seat and stepped on the gas, all that gravel and dirt and chunks of mire ruined my shoes on thE half mile back to the motel, yes, she was gone when I got there and left me with a bill which was fucked because my wallet was in the car, the glove compartment for safe keeping, you take in a deep breath, reach for a cigarette, remember you haven't smoked in 20 years, conclude it's an awful thing to forget what you're talking about in mid-sentence. The bartender, two local drunks and a woman in a crossing guard's uniform are staring at you, dumb as tombstones. Make your sadness more interesting you offer, stay thirsty and chatty, ok?