In Which God is a Party

Aria Aber

Nothing here glitters, hence it must be real. So repulsed 
I am with me; even the one-eyed dog mourns, his bark 
a damp excoriation of the night. Let me be selfless, 
a funnel for fire-pills. I must envelop God, 
must inject her into my nostrils as if she was lard. 
Must vibrate like wire pulled and strung: my vertebrae 
all copper-din, blue as the sinner who 
kilned them. What apparatus of human am I, 
with my crotch of feathers, my hair tugging 
at the floor like a beggar, tonguing half-straws 
from mirror-shards. Inhabited I am by a moon: fossilized, 
a togaed slut. She’ll throw me at any chromatic thing. 
Is the music over soon? I never wanted to be here.
Consider the ants on the bathroom tile multiplying like debt. 
Consider the gremlins under their umbrellas, 
their furious thumbs sprouting dollar-bills 
ad infinitum. How much more of rolling up cigarettes, 
curling up inside God’s ear, salting and frying year after year 
spent away from my self? Apologetic I grow only for
the sugar-cube, and the years brooding 
on the rain-glazed couch crouched waterside. When the self 
leaves me, the cathedral fills, and God examines 
us via rabbit hearts buried in caskets. Disco balls. Acid tabs: 
ponies are galloping my cells. Each of their hoofs 
fuming its own story, shouting supplications
inside our asylum of bodies.