Back when I was God, I had friends.
We wrote our own Bible
And got thrown out of church.
Then I saw one of us again—a man
Pushing into him
From behind. He turned
His final face to the camera
Like a teenager coming
Upon a pimple in the mirror.
The lonely worship alone.
I search out such filth in the cathedral
Of my home, but this time,
With a sheet, I covered the screen.
That’s what the holy do to the body
After shutting its eyes,
And that’s this scribe’s last vision
Of another poorly recorded life
As I talk to myself in late July, dragging
A fan behind me like an oxygen tank.
Previously published in The New Testament (Copper Canyon 2014)