THE LAP OF VENICE
I have sat in the lap of God: pulled his beard so he gave me a noogie,
told her she was beautiful and she gently fondled me, and I read God
stories, stories, stories...
And had them read back to me by God as she/he/me/us/you laughed in
transient grief and cried in infinite joy.
We walked hand in hand along Venice beach in a summer swelter
softened by the sympathetic sea.
We stopped for pizza and beer, and admired the street performers,
especially appreciating the high art of a brown tinged bum who hadn't
bathed in 6 weeks despite the peaceful Pacific only 100 yards west, and
glowed in hilarity at the patrol officers in their dark dark navy blue uniforms,
so alienated from the bicyclists and inline skaters that they could hardly bear
to climb out of their car, unless prodded with rage from a good solid motivator
attached to an image of overpowering wrongness to them.
I walked hand in hand with God, and I looked at God's nakedness: God had no genitalia,
and all possible.
I looked again and God was a beautiful blond skating by;
Again and God was a grinning black man wearing dreadlocks and blue and yellow
necklaces of unknowable ancestry.
I looked at the sea and God waved at me.
I looked at the sun and God blazed nigh to wilt me.
I looked between my feet and God smiled out of the tarmac.
I took a deep breath in wonder and almost choked, for God had flown into my mouth
as a gnat, which I refused to strain at, though you might...
I walked hand in hand with God by the sea, the shops, the sand, the graffiti tags
on the walls, the restaurants which were kind enough to serve Coca-Cola
the nectar of Gods, and laughed like there was no tomorrow nor yesterday either.
Because there isn't.
We walked hand in hand and made love even as we stepped, with every movement
an orgasm of union.
I walked with God along Venice beach and cried with joy...
And every single crystalline grain of sand on the beach was a world of wonder.