Category: Writing

Look, I concede the flaming sword
was a flex. Surely the angel
should’ve been enough, not to mention
the Architect of the Universe
grabbing you by the fig leaf
and tossing you out on your ass.

But Adam had to’ve been damned
sure the Tree of the Knowledge
of Good and Evil had been crafted
by God. (I mean, He prompted, ‘Let
there be…’, but He was just
talking to Himself.)

Adam didn’t stand there in thought,
sculpted hands on sculpted hips,
muttering to an increasingly
distracted Eve, ‘I dunno, babe,
the leaves are all wrong.’ No,
he took the bespoke apple

from bespoke Eve’s bespoke fingers
and took a reckless, cocksure bite.
And isn’t that level of certainty
worth a little hard work;
a few thorns?

Today we could have either one half-gallon
of milk or one dozen eggs, which, if not
Christmas, is like Arbor Day or Flag Day.
Like, you don’t get the day off but it’s
marked special on the calendar and it’s
not just Tuesday. If you get here early
the food hasn’t been sitting outside for
long and the frosting on the remaindered
donuts hasn’t been rendered into chocolate
syrup. Maybe they’ll still have meat. Once
a store donated deviled eggs, sweating
and fortified with Salmonella.

(I’ve never seen salmon before but I just
could’ve been late that day.)

No one wanted the eggs because no one wants
to hang with the Devil recreationally. Or
at all. You can’t even make eye contact
with the Devil; he’s so clingy. Besides,
even we have standards. Someone should tell
someone that we have standards.

Someone should tell someone.