Dan O'Connell Apostate If I had a god to reject It would be the typical sort – stronger Than arctic wind or tectonic plates he himself Thought of creating, but decided To assign the chore to certain angels With an interest in science and sadism. My god would have centuries Of statues Devoted to its shifting likeness: hawk, fist, thunder, Stone Poseidon castrated by time, Hippie-type with a hidden temper, painted white. That kind of holy spirit who comes pandering Around crises, death and other failures, Peddling ultimate truth with a megaphone; Not a gentle goddess, nor the wishy-washy sort Who sits quietly in AA meetings and doesn’t share His cigarettes, just holds hands at the end And shuffles away shyly. I picture my god As a menacing whip-tongued giant, missile-fangs Set in backhoe jaws, tank-tread feet, Drunk-father grip, and it would wait behind every Blind corner, a bipolar deity ready to rip me To shreds like a blown-out tire, crush me For the slightest posted offense, Omnipresent as fear and optimism. But I have no god. No Ra, Zeus or Mithra. No Huitzilopochti, Yahweh or Allah. No Brahma. No Nothing, not even a totem. I have only the heavens Heavy with light, This planet coagulated out of dust Like cotton candy spun into being And the bickering multitudes Scampering over its meager surface I try, limping, to love.