In this movie

David C. Hall

In this movie God is made of aluminum foil,

computer screens and old cell phones,

beer cans and dead batteries

with eyes of Christmas tree lights

strung all around his toaster head

so he can see all ways at once.

When he walks out,

his great flat feet in Birkenstocks

crush trees and fruit stands

at the farmers’ market, farmers too.

The gutters run red with marmalade.

Old Testament readers, believers,

come streaming out to greet him

in the street, prostrate themselves

and are squished before it’s even time to eat,

leaving behind a stinking slime

and hoards of blue-black flies.

Chosen by fate to meet the menace

is the usual actor past his prime,

all clenched-teeth and jutting-jaw,

old county sheriff with a past

and a problem with the booze.

At last a chance to redeem himself,

but not this time. Police pathetic

as the little flags on their breast pockets,

drop their guns and run.

It looks like mankind’s done for,

but reconciliation’s on its way.

Just then the Son (the Sun) comes up,

it’s bright as day,

and suddenly peace and love

are here to stay

till some nut shoots him

in the head,

quite dead.

The End