God is President, She’s the Rose of the World

When it’s that time of month it’s like falling backwards in “time.” God has abandoned her glass carriage, she is “dead.” And the edges of objects: wavy in the eye that’s about to cry, a twitter running down the spine of… Oh God, it can’t be. (Insert song of mourning.) God and time, spine of the world— yawn, blah, blah, schma… what I meant to say is it’s hard to be a capitalist. If the world’s time is God, and she’s birds atwitter, then why must I go to work? The answer writes itself: left to my own devices I’d just sink into the soil. That is, write, with dirt as my pillow.   In the hole between twitters there’s random patches of mud-sky. So humid. There’re chairs growing in hell. There’re chairs growing in hell, and people sit on them, my co-workers: it’s like riding on toadstools except you don’t know it, or you kind of know it that time of month. That’s when you feel the twitter, the muddy shiver. You dream of your uncle turning a lamb on a spit high on a green cliff, with fog thickening around him and then he’s made to swallow keys and little hammers— you claw the red clay. Now wake. Show me the bouquet! No, don’t show me the bouquet. Show me the bouquet! If you do, I won’t tell on you to the rose of the world. She can make him hear you up there. Besides, it’s not a cliff, it’s a chair. And the rose is God. Got it? Gott it? This is why women should be President.