The Wall

They’ve been working on the wall next door for 6 months. Pounding, scraping, sanding—what in hell could they be building? How many nails can a wall hold before nails is what it is?

This thing you ask me, you say, So what about it? Why should I care? And I answer, Because you’re God. And you say, Oh! Flattery!


The pigeons swirl through the air, a funnel of feathers and blue sky. A man with a big, stiff dog puts a handkerchief to his mouth and wrinkles his forehead. Disease, he says to me, with some pleasure in his eyes.


You think it’s me? you say. I do these things? If not you, I answer, Who? Who puts blue light in the sky, infection in the air? Who is behind the hand behind the wall?


The toast comes up as golden as sunlight when I prefer it black.


You look for ideas where there’s only matter, you say. It’s dull. How dull. I say, Even God fails to know what’s inside his skull, working in secret. You laugh, so hard the trees spread their leaves, the roses begin to grow.

{If you like what you read}

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