Photo by Dimitri Khrustalev-Grigoriev
Syllogistically Yours
Marc Pietrzykowski
This world has a terrible haircut
and it groans getting out of the car,
therefore, God is a soliloquy
discussing winter’s enjambment of autumn.
This world is a box of crayons left on a radiator
and it walks like a duck and talks like a duck,
therefore, God is the smell of oatmeal with butter
after a night dancing in puddles of pink champagne.
This world is a mound of used Kleenex
nested atop a gleaming, polished rat’s skull,
therefore, God has fallen asleep
at a booth in the back of the diner.
Not even a kiss from a defibrillator will wake her.
Marc Pietrzykowski
This world has a terrible haircut
and it groans getting out of the car,
therefore, God is a soliloquy
discussing winter’s enjambment of autumn.
This world is a box of crayons left on a radiator
and it walks like a duck and talks like a duck,
therefore, God is the smell of oatmeal with butter
after a night dancing in puddles of pink champagne.
This world is a mound of used Kleenex
nested atop a gleaming, polished rat’s skull,
therefore, God has fallen asleep
at a booth in the back of the diner.
Not even a kiss from a defibrillator will wake her.