There is laundry to be done
in these newly-vacuumed rooms.
Tomorrow the floor will be dirty,
but the clothes will be clean.
I won’t sweep again ’til next week.
No intercessor will slow the dirt,
nor speed up my schedule.
My bed is barely made as well
covers roughly tossed toward
the head of the thing, hastily
No one will ever see today’s bed.
I have satisfied my cleanliness.
There is no intercessor between
hospital corners and what I do.
I have spent the day humbly:
Routine things that add up to
a full life (before matrimony).
I intend to live a bright line
’til someone notices the gaps
and I theirs; and walking with,
We, each other’s intercessor.
Stuffed full of words for the writing
poems, songs, fiction, novels, news
And no matter how many worlds invented
there is still only this world
there is no Gillifrey,
there is no Alderaan,
dead planets gone from their own fictions
there is no Endor,
there is no
Homemade deities wandering the streets
looking for a couch on which to sleep
Homeless deities, some new and some old,
held together by the strength of our pride.
We creators don’t believe in them, currently,
but we creators still give them life
tethered to human minds by a golden thread,
the gods waiting to be yanked back, when
things collapse, to take up their space,
not rightful, but that which fits each god.
It is easier to install and serve a fake god
than to daily live with an infinite one.
But the homemade deities are small comfort,
for they roam and range, abandoning us.
They seek other homes, other spaces,
for they are not able to be in all spaces.
And these homeless deities, still unsevered,
are nothing compared to a deity
who wasn’t made
who was severed
and whose home is everywhere