Godspotting from Godspotting by Cielo Hemon

Godspotting

I saw God as a guy was backing
into a shallow parking spot
under a leafless tree. The symmetry
was stunning, as was the night,
the underclouds absorbing the city
light. God picked up the dog poop,
leaned the bag against a tree,
as if it were a squirrel corpse.
This was in Berlin,
in twenty twenty-three.

Later I pissed into a deep pot
of a lushly tropical plastic tree.
Everything and its mother were set
for a cheeky Dantesque simile.
God ran across an empty street
carrying a headless mannequin.
It was a dream come true to be
absent from my own forsaken life.
This was in Berlin,
in twenty twenty-three.

God tells no stories nor jokes,
does not comfort nor entertain,
needs no coke bump, nor any of us.
He just shows up at the crime scene,
late, tipsy, cackling into His sleeve,
as if wanting to solve the mystery.
We are what we need, we speak to us,
not this limp motherfucker tossing
His tie over His shoulder on the way
to replant the false evidence,
deep inside Berlin,
in twenty twenty-three

So look at me now, feet up
in my heaven-shaped slippers,
sucking on a metaphoric pipe
of eternal peace. Everywhere
letters, stacked like tombstones,
dust bunnies evolving into life.
Look at me recalling the knees
and the soul pain they encased
as I genuflected before the Lord,
in Berlin, in twenty twenty-three.

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