.
There are fashions in gods and on
average about only
point-oh-two-three percent of the
six trillion divinities
which every twenty-three seconds
are loosed on the heedless
oblivious cosmos become
something someone remembers
and uses for something to pray
to, but who can keep track.
.
The others are made to vamoose
and they do not come back.
When inevitably they discover
they’ve quickly spent all
their apportionment of their
supposed irresistibly gorgeous
inimitability to precious little
avail, they get thrown in the god-
pail and hauled into something that
looks like the mouth of
.
what Jonah jumped into when he
met that whale, but is really
the portal to random dimensions
into which they’ll fail even
worse than they’ve already
done. Then Rahn-Syd, the dog-god
of Flatulence slated by fate to
be one of these misfires, decided
if fate was as hateful as that, he would conjure up something
.
untoward to throw into the
infinite vat into which they were
destined to fly and to fester:
he was the dog-god of farts,
after all, and he’d learned the
supernal fine arts of producing
a literally nonstop onslaught
of gas which he aimed at the pass
through which they would have vanished
had he not with one
.
bang (as big as the one that’s
hypothesized to have made us)
quite entirely banished it into
the void with the rest of its
component stuff. Of course the
new universe come into being
quite awfully stank. For that they
had Rahn-Syd to thank.
But only I know it. Witness the
teleological power of the poet.
.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment