“Behold, The Servant”

I love the sound of molten lava
amplified to the level of punk
rock. It’s my latest god.
My last was a word I’ve already
forgotten. It named the act
of throwing a bird to the ground
before eating it. That word kept me
safe & smug for a year. Before that,
I worshiped the bin at Goodwill
marked USED MUSIC. Not
what it held, but the bin itself,
the holy fact that every thrift store
has one. I still fear these powers,
I just don’t do their work. My oldest
gods live on a mattress in the back
of my head; a man & woman —
junkies both — nodding out to
reruns of childhood. They rarely
interfere. Some nights the woman
will fumble the intercom, saying
Ye shall call that girl ye liked
in high school & ask her for money.
Or the man will cry & beg me
to learn piano so he can cry harder.
Verily I tune them out. Brother,
I’ve heard the light & it’s a boom
shaka lacka. It’s the earth boiling
in to a hundred million Japanese
microphones (I’m sure this time),
the roar of the crowd at Pompei.