The Kissing Portion of the Evening

When God created his odd Universe – some say
misused his pluck – to work it up until it had acquired
all its grindingly indifferent, mindlessly purposive
motives – all its mercilessly random traits – he must
have thought (if God does anything as bumbling
as think) that when inevitably his extravagance abates –
when he’s lost interest and his diddly-bits all sink –
the serpent (finally successful!) eats its tail

and Jonah wreaks a bloody vengeance on the whale –
there ought to be some grand blast of a layoff –
sweet feast payoff for the meshes and the plaits
of all the whining whirring gluons, leptons, quarks
and other wee alluring baits attracting energy
to splatter into matter: one orgasmic exhumation
that concludes the weirdness of his peroration
through the bruising slews of possibility we call

Existence – to reward his diddly-bits for their persistence.
On that metaphoric Seventh Day of rest – which
he has not attained remotely yet (God here attests) –
he surely plans to take, in his divinely ardent yielding
arms, a coalescence of the mess, conjured into
all the charms of an Apollo wed to Venus –
to the mix of which he’ll do you-know-exactly-what
with his eternally tumescent penis – but not until

he’s lent it all a cooler calming mist: the kissing
portion of the evening: let those last rays of light
above permit the sight, at last, of absolute unmitigated
love. Let sunset on a Sunday – ever-after now –
in prospect of the large penultimate affection
God will show us right before he gets to that ejaculated
final wow – present us with an opportunity for bliss.
Every musk of Sunday dusk, find someone to kiss.



.