The gods know what I want before I do. They know I want a little god in me.
The gods offer blank slates. The gods offer black marker smiles. They offer profit, excess,
cardboard box-headed children to the void so I don’t have to. The gods are generous.
If my void were economy-sized I’d take them in myself, but the truth of the matter
is dark matter, is materializing the void. I tell them their anthills are not the anthills
I was led to believe. Their anthills are so incredibly deceptive it’s predictable.
There’s an explosion and the ants have no faces so I give them rust handkerchiefs. I offer
my hands full of sugar, full of vinegar, rope entrails to climb up
the face of the gods, baby gods pouring from my nose. I sign over my organs,
their organs, whatever. The gods care for me.
Their anthill eyes watch me watch them. They undress me with their anthills.
This is a new voyeurism and I dig.
