The one who yells at God prefers his chili with chorizo
and a double blast of jalapeno – yet enjoys post-prandially
mild conversation with the blandest bit of something afterwards:
perhaps a small vanilla custard with a slice or two of peach.
He used to play harmonica professionally; now he likes to teach.
The one who doesn’t yell at God consorts in secret, sneaking,
late at night, into the dunes of an unnamed Long Island beach
with a vain and lovely Guatemalan hottie who, although he’s fat,
inspires him to sexually acrobatic excess – quite beyond belief.
When done, she smokes a cigarette, he eats corned beef.
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