By J.J. Tindall
My Gods
My Zeus and Hera reign
Atop the White Castle Tower,
A marvelous urban summit
Of light just south of Sears Tower.
From this electric Olympus
They pull my strings and arrange
My fates. Hey: it’s
An interpretation
As all gods are. Symbols, not things
In themselves. I wonder and worry
But do not believe. I make up stories
To explain my sorrows.
Less terrifying that way.
Zeus specializes in busting my balls,
Hera slips me treats and boons
Behind his hairy, winged back. Wow:
They’re like parents!
Funny how that works.
I spend my days currying
Their favor with chants and spells
And silent, specialized gestures.
I blow sunshine up their asses
So they don’t hurt me any more
Than they are already prone to do.
Doesn’t always work.
Friends die, lovers leave, jobs
Disappear like heat mirages
Despite my artful homages.
Thing is, I take comfort.
My ego is soothed by delusions
Of favor with higher powers,
Of a leg up on infidel neighbors
More likely to die
In the next tornado.
Yeah: I got People!
My very clouds are seeded
With invisible Uncles and Chinamen!
It feels really, really good.
It is utter, egomaniacal bullshit
But it makes me feel better.
My tears become wine.
Drunk with delusion, I stay alive.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on February 28, 2011