Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Blame it on the nachos

Strange, semi-solid clumps floating on the surface of the retention pond.
A nude, corpulent God full of hallucinogenics and squatting in tall grass near a strip of concrete
breathes heavily
after wolfing down a bucket of triple-beef, quadruple-chicken, quintuple-pork nachos.

Divine breath moves the semi-solid clumps,
And experimental cosmologists
in that Other Place
worry themselves crazy over the acceleration of an already rapidly expanding universe.

Nothing will hold.
The Fabled Center? No such thing, never was, never could be, utterly prohibited.
All shall spiral into nonsense.
God must have His bowl of nachos.
No soda today, though, since He's counting carbs.

-May-August 2014
 William D. Tucker

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