I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you, God.
You’re not all you’re cracked up to be!
You’re always testing, testing, testing—
Like a an old school-marm
Or a ruler-packing knuckle-cracker.
You stack the cards against us
Then tell us that we’re free:
Free to choose the Tree of Knowledge
Or live in holy bliss—doorknob dumb.
If we choose knowledge, we choose death.
Some parable! Some choice!
They tell us you sent your Son to save us.
They tell us you hardened the heart of Pharaoh.
Shouldn’t you soften the heart of Pharaoh?
Did all those Egyptians have to die in the sea?
Weren’t they your children, too?
What’s the point of sending your Son
To die of crucifixion?
Couldn’t you simply make us all
A little more compassionate?
The fire-and-brimstone crowd
Say it’s all because of Satan;
God and Jesus are fine,
But Satan is mucking the works.
Satan turned women into witches,
Riding around on broomsticks,
Whooping and hollering,
Showing off their vaginas--
So we burned them at the stake.
Freud told Satan a joke about it
And they laughed together heartily.
When Satan guffaws, the pillars of Heaven rattle.
You, on the other hand, never even chuckle.
There’s not one healthy belly-laugh in the whole bloomin’ Bible!
Lighten up, God! Take a breahter!
That Bible, by the way—what kind of book is that?
Was ever anything more radioactive?
“Love thy neighbor as thyself,” and
“‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.”
So, what is it? Vengeance or Love?
Satan or Christ?
The Tree of Knowledge
Or stultifying stupidity?
You always want to have it both ways—
The glory when things are honky-dory,
And the gory denouements when we screw up.
No wonder we’re schizoid!
I mean, take this Tower of Babel.
There’s everyone working together,
Dancing and singing, eating falafels,
Matzoh balls—whatever—and feeling real good
About their community organizations.
But you—you’re steaming,
Pulling your autocratic beard—
Your children are forgetting you,
Not making the proper obeisance!
So you hit’em with
A multiplex of tonuge-lashings--
A Cheney shotgun blast to the larynx.
What? What’s he saying?
God, if you’re so God-wonderful,
Wipe the slate clean!
If you’re so God-Almighty,
Forgive and forget,
Re-wind the reel.
Those ancient texts
Need major re-editing.
A lot of good writers
Have come into their own
Since Solomon and Luke.
A lot of holy artists
Have their own take
On what’s worth living,
What’s worth dying for.
God, get a job! Quit loitering!
Come down and clean up
Your goddamn, freakin’ bullshit!
I’m counting to ten, God.
Hop to it!
Gary Corseri’s work has appeared at DissidentVoice, CounterPunch, CommonDreams, The New York Times, Village Voice, ThomasPaine’sCorner and elsewhere. His books include Holy Grail, Holy Grail and Manifestations. He’s not sure if he wants to go to Heaven. He thinks he’s already in Purgatory. He can be contacted at: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Other Articles and Poems by Gary Corseri
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