Muzzle my mouth if I am wicked and strike
with commonality and sanity when I strike
muzzle first at the wicked who struck
me with ordinary apathy.
Wrath down on my sin when I spit
at those who laze and fatten and smoke
letting smoky wrath into themselves
and I sin when I strike a wrathful thing
from within my mouth creeping and oozing
around my muzzle.
The ooze collects and strikes
those listening to the unmuzzled
who spit wrath from fat mouths and leash
the common ordinary with sinful
smoke and wrathful mirrored ooze.
Notch my muzzle. Stain my ooze.
A tick mark of wrath etched in the mirror
of smoke and ooze and
I will strike and call myself sinner.
Some religions have these wonderfully
colorful gods who fly and turn themselves
into dwarves or rats or gas.
Quetzal is just a yellow-blue-red bird-man,
And Your son wears dusty flip-flops and
could use a haircut and a bath.
Zeus turned into a swan and totally
boned that chick and I know she
remembers doing a swan-god.
And Your son got sold out for thirty bucks.
Krishna showed his mom the whole
universe: space, time, humanity,
And Your son asked for water because he was
thirsty. I’ve never been that thirsty.
Even that wizard kid can talk to snakes and
start fires with a little stick.
I really want to turn into someone/thing else
to get all kinds of chicks and respect.
My shoes are dirty and I need thirty bucks.
David Pischke teaches creative writing and American Literature in Northwest Phoenix. His stunning wife, little boy, students, and two big dogs encourage him. He is an MFA candidate at Fairleigh Dickinson University.