God/no-god
Jim Bohen
Talk of God, of what it’s all about.
Around a candle that’s supposed to keep the bugs away.
Backyard, beer, wine, pot. The candle doesn’t do its job.
So bugs buzz; I buzz as well.
And I try to keep what I think is a buzz
a buzz for as long as I can, try to stay on point, on task,
keep the discussion relevant, hold the feeling I’m profound
like a prof in love with his words and sound.
I try to slip past all the shit to reach the point
of sky, of land, of me, of you, of stars, of dust–
of every goddamn thing that is–
and hope some kind of word exists that describes it all.
Talk of no-god, the one that says God’s never been.
Why anything? Yes, good point, but why can’t God show
its damn face? I try to slip between the cracks
of what’s cemented in our brains that can’t get around
the size of it all, the unbelievable–yet it’s there–
cannot-fathom-it size of it all.
Dishes clink inside the house.
It’s a signal–time to leave, time to file the buzz away.
God/no-god must wait for when
God/no-god gets buzzed again.
Now it’s time to drive back home, confident that we’ll
survive. The thought will not occur to us
that you can be stopped for driving while Black
because God gave us both a skin
that works quite well for police patrols.
Soon we’ll sleep beneath a gift, a gift of stars,
a gift of black, a massive stupendous
of speckled-up dark that God supposedly made for us.
We’re part of a party, a wonderful party,
a marvelous party we’re meant to enjoy
(though some enjoy it much, much more
and some don’t get to smile at all).
But once no-god had heard of it, the party proved
irresistible. no-god really had no choice–
it would have to crash.
Jim Bohen
Talk of God, of what it’s all about.
Around a candle that’s supposed to keep the bugs away.
Backyard, beer, wine, pot. The candle doesn’t do its job.
So bugs buzz; I buzz as well.
And I try to keep what I think is a buzz
a buzz for as long as I can, try to stay on point, on task,
keep the discussion relevant, hold the feeling I’m profound
like a prof in love with his words and sound.
I try to slip past all the shit to reach the point
of sky, of land, of me, of you, of stars, of dust–
of every goddamn thing that is–
and hope some kind of word exists that describes it all.
Talk of no-god, the one that says God’s never been.
Why anything? Yes, good point, but why can’t God show
its damn face? I try to slip between the cracks
of what’s cemented in our brains that can’t get around
the size of it all, the unbelievable–yet it’s there–
cannot-fathom-it size of it all.
Dishes clink inside the house.
It’s a signal–time to leave, time to file the buzz away.
God/no-god must wait for when
God/no-god gets buzzed again.
Now it’s time to drive back home, confident that we’ll
survive. The thought will not occur to us
that you can be stopped for driving while Black
because God gave us both a skin
that works quite well for police patrols.
Soon we’ll sleep beneath a gift, a gift of stars,
a gift of black, a massive stupendous
of speckled-up dark that God supposedly made for us.
We’re part of a party, a wonderful party,
a marvelous party we’re meant to enjoy
(though some enjoy it much, much more
and some don’t get to smile at all).
But once no-god had heard of it, the party proved
irresistible. no-god really had no choice–
it would have to crash.
Photo by Andrew Neel