Honest Chaos
Honest Chaos
Not a god
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When you start your day
by stubbing your toe
even before you get to the bathroom
and you know it's an insignificant injury
in the scope of world tragedy
but in the moment
the pain occupies all of your brain
except for the part still carrying on
about how you have to pee -
this 
is a first glimmer
that the old gods 
are about today.

But in case you're not ready to believe,
you'll have cut yourself shaving
and that tiny slice will bleed
onto the first shirt you put on
and so you'll go downstairs
having dressed yourself twice.
You'll knock your coffee over
with a flick of your hand,
then you'll forget your keys on your way to your car
and then as you pull out of your neighborhood,
you'll remember your wallet
is waiting patiently on the counter for you.
And you will do a quick calculus  - 
can I get through my day with no money? 
what's the chance the police will pull me over?
and that last one, 
given the other signs
has you turning around in some stranger's driveway.

Now your ancestors in that Mediterranean village - 
no, not the ones with the copious crucifixes,
before them.
The ones who made the tiny shrines 
tucked into every nook and corner
where their descendants, closer to you, 
shoved little statues of Mary,
but those older ancestors had other figures there first.
They knew when a splash of wine was called for, 
or to place a slice of orange
or a few almonds.
And they would tell you,
based on the morning you are having
that you have 
with the utmost certainty
offended a god.
A small god, most likely, 
but still, what are you?
Not a god,
they would tell you. 

And now you,
having lost touch with the old ways,
awkwardly pour a bit of your coffee from your travel mug
onto the mulch by the garage door,
the threshold of your home and the larger world.
It's a small gesture,
but it is noted.

Somehow from there
you find yourself moving more deliberately
and all the lights are green when you roll up to them
and all the cars seem to have other places to be
other than in front of you,
and thus 
somehow, 
you arrive on time. 

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Honest Chaos
Honest Chaos
A poetry, fiction, and spoken word podcast. Completely irregular. Web site: https://honestchaos.blogspot.com/
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Mark Bonica