Two Poems
James Bishop
God,
Who created the dimpled planets,
who created my own cracked ass,
who numbers the hairs on my head,
who watched the liquid earth pass
below Port-au-Prince, who sat
drumming to the hum of the cherubim
while a city collapsed. Good God,
who rescued me from my own dim
innocence, to the living God
who died and remains dead, (at least
that’s what brother Nietzsche said),
I pray to you, living-dead high priest,
killer, creator of the penis
shaped bullet and the heart it found,
breath of death, breath of life, breathe
your breath on me tonight.
Tweets of Faith
I believe in God
as much as my friend
Karl the computer
scientist believes in
not-God, the un-soul,
in the zeros and ones
that turn on & flip off,
reliably enough.
I believe no one
offers you more
than asking price for
the faded sweat shirt
you stuck in the yard sale.
Here, you’ve worked
hard. Take a dollar.
I believe in you, slightly
angry at me for escaping
to my cave, slightly
in love with me for –
I’m guessing here –
my great legs & my
ability to impersonate
Jimmy Durante.
I believe that when I’m
sad, formal poetry, Saint
John’s Wort, grilled
salmon, chilled wine,
and blunt prayer most
often begin the motions
toward my rescue.
I believe social media
is really anti-social media.
Any message that can be
put in a nutshell should stay
in the nutshell. (That’s 140
characters; think I’ll tweet it.)
James Gleason Bishop earned an MFA from Lesley University in 2010. His work has appeared in North American Review; Connecticut Review; Limestone; Xavier Review; Free Lunch; Christianity and Literature; Smithsonian; Yankee and War, Literature and the Arts. He lives in Granby, Massachusetts, with his wife, daughter, and grandchildren.