If God were alive, and He is, you could
see Him on Castro Street
every Sunday afternoon, wiping cheesy pizza filaments
from his archaic prophetic beard, muttering softly
to Himself and poking around the bookstores
in search of an inspirational fuck story
and a couple cool crotch shots
later you could find him playing hide-and-seek in the aisles at
Walgreen's behind the bottles of green mouthwash, stalking
some of the shoppers with an apostolic hard-on, then he'd
sit marginalized on a barstool next to the open window
in Big Daddy's, nursing a sloe-gin fizz and regressing
into a megasulk about the collapse of the Patriarchy
while the youth of America passed by outside
in waves of endless self-presentation,
questing for instant dick
then he'd leave and take in the six o'clock show at the Castro
Theater, sleeping through some Bette Davis flick he'd
seen seventeen times, then he'd cruise down 18th
to the Midnight Sun for a Margarita
and mosey off to the Badlands to wash it down with a few
cheap drafts, and think about firing the Pope for being
such an infallible tight-ass, or about introducing
distributive sex to the angelic orders: then
he'd follow some guy into the men's
room & toss off a quick one
later he'd formulate a plan to sodomize Satan, now working
as a TV evangelist out of Baton Rouge, with a blast of
Godhead by Fed-Exxing him a package filled with
corrective explosives, and finally he'd teleport
himself back to his celestial projection room
and nod off chuckling over the video re-mix called
Desire endlessly denied, shown on the queer
events channel Castro Street USA 1997,
somewhere in space/time
14.5 billion years
after Genesis