Monday, September 5, 2011

"5's on that chair"

My soul cooked the liver
baked the brain tissue
fried the remainder of the heart,
a serving juiced with drops of type O blood,
sprinkled with ethanol sweat,
and served at the Devil's empty chair.

The seat is still flaming, the town is too,
but the Devil is gone
on break
be back in five minutes
to move on from the appetizer--
the appetizer I'm so happy he ate first
and I wish he would digest quickly
I do. I wish.

I can still see his stomach lining
and almost through it
and at the disappointed glances of his dinner guests
But I was deliciously salty from tears
and crunchy.
Surely She thought me perfectly crunchy.
I had to be.

And from outside the guests' raw meninges
blood is dripping from the dinner table to their sandals.
And they prettily exchange facts of the day
while someone snatches an early nibble
on my ear.
It would have tickled.
The Devil's empty chair looms at the end of the table
and everyone wonders what happened--
what happened to God's empty chair.
He didn't call 5's.

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