Loki

Mashed
earth, fricative
vocables, held in
mouthfuls, handfuls,
hearthfuls,
hearsefuls,
giant baby god
frothing,
pouring gold
into its mouth
by fire’s
jollity

Spirituality

There is the power of prayer.
The power of silence.
The power of beavers.
Large, menacing beavers.

You forgot that one.

The Light Bulb of Cumae

You say to write a poem
you need to feel inspired.
I have this light bulb
in the center of a ceiling,
the center of a room,
that is similarly unreliable.
I flip the switch at night,
but it only comes on
if it is inspired.
Yet I don’t replace
the broken light bulb,
out of a deep respect
for its past poetry
of half-assed
light.

Heliolatry

Science tells us
we shouldn’t worship the sun.
It’s let us in the cold before,
wouldn’t come closer during all those ice ages
where we froze to death.
It will someday reach out
and just incinerate us
with tongues of flame.
Creator, Preserver, Destroyer.
All the God bases covered.
Call it a deity or not.
The cycles stay the same.
Everybody curses it out
or dotes on its wonderful
qualities. So it exists.
But you seriously question
whether you will ever talk
face to face.

The Process

I like religion. Sometimes. If it gives people
distance from the process, which is everything.
Transcendence. Some it turns to rabid dogs.
That’s a different process than the one I’m talking about.
The one which is all.