I think God is schizophrenic.
He keeps confusing my order.
I’m on the beach, salty, tossed from too many storms.
In other words, yes, I’m hurricane haunted mermaid bones.
I jangle so juicy when I walk.
But this road doesn’t lead where it’s supposed to.
How do I keep missing the sunrise on Key West?
Koko Loko and Kim Wu won’t hold the table forever.
I think God is fucking with me.
In my sleep on the long way home I cry out for Mom
like she’s the angel driving the van through clouds
like she knows the route
like she is magic enough to shake the seeds from my skull.
This communion is not what I was hoping for.
This bread doesn’t come from the surest oven.
I don’t know where you got these grapes, mister, but no way in hell
am I drinking this discounted wine.
There are other
tourists for that.
Easily tricked and led to the rocks
where everything breaks
to the manic delight
of the gossiping gulls.

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