And still happy hour.
This is called "Storm Catechism."
I was raised Catholic.
And so we had something called the Baltimore Catechism.
It was great because all the hard questions of life
were answered.
Who made man?
God made man.
Why did God make man?
To love, honor, and serve Him.
You know, so everything was sort of handled,
which was nice for a while.
So this is called "Storm Catechism."
And it's a poem that asks some questions
and attempts to answer them.
And it's about the gods, but you could easily
substitute politicians, and-- you know, same deal.
"Storm Catechism."
The gods are rinsing their just-boiled pasta
in a colander, which is why it is humid
and fitfully raining down here in the steel
sink of mortal life.
Sometimes, you can smell the truffle oil
and hear the ambrosia being knocked back.
Sometimes, you catch a drift of laughter
in that thunder crack--
Zeus knocking over his glass, spilling lightning into a tree.
The tree shears away from itself and falls on a car,
killing a high school girl.
Or maybe it just crashes down on a few trash
cans, and the next day, gets cut up
and hauled away by the city--
either way, hilarity.
The gods are infinitely perfect, as is
their divine mac and cheese.
Where does macaroni come from?
Where does matter?
Why does the cat act autistic when
you call her, then bat around a moth for an hour,
watching intently as it drags its wings over the area rug?
The gods were here first, and they're bigger.
They always were, and always will be living it
up in their father's mansion.
You only crawled from the drain a few millennia ago
after inventing legs for yourself so you could stand,
inventing fists in order to raise them and curse
the heavens.
Do the gods see us?
Will the waters be rising soon?
The waters will be rising soon.
Find someone or something to cling to.