Hotel

God was in Paris
on the weekend of our mother’s
visitation.

He went in and out with the trees
and scooped ice cream, flooded the
rivers and crawled beneath the bridges. I
asked him to beers on the floor next to the bed
where you slept. He accepted. Then He dodged me.
Made me wait it out.
I hung in there
and played solitaire
until He entered, a bloated goon
with tuberculosis.

We went ahead,
hallucinated with men inside, men drunk,
men laughing.

I carried the flesh of a bull in my belly, licked the brown
flame,
unzippered the meaning of true perversion
on your dry lips, in the
bath, in between God’s
toes.

And when we woke up,
no one remembered anything but
that.