| Thunder Sandwich #17
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 dweeb by jeff filipski |
| SKEIN In his latest dream there was nothing left of his body except his bared shoulder bone, his tattered left arm, his face-less head. Some force against force had pulverized the rest of his flesh into a skein of unidentifiable fragments— bits of bones, of broken skin and veins. What was left awaited the grave swathed in satin, encased in hardwood as he— oblivious to the destruction done to his remains— listened for a voice— a distant whisper of his name to which he could respond with either shy apprehension or a joy so full he would leap up from that place and race through clouds and high-flying contrails. LIKE GOD you've passed from me— your presence going like a cloud No longer do I believe in you— not in you nor the God who haunted me like you. I doubt you ever existed. There's not an ounce of proof you stood here beside me—your scent haunting me like an unseen incense cast into the air by the thuribles of invisible angels violent in their devotion to you. The photos— the stiff, one-dimensional images someone somewhere laid out on thick photography paper— are all doctored like the bible. Your letters— even that final one I carry around with me on my forehead everywhere I go, like tefillin— are all written in different handwriting. Your apostles— those thick-browed buddies of yours— have scribbled in whatever they thought you might've said, perpetuating your myth. Gone— you and God have gone off from me like— like— longing or hope. |
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| ISSN: 1534-4037 |
Edited by Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny
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