On the Second Day

— No, no, no. This cannot be, as I can’t have been here yet.

For the mine of mud was brown Play-Doh.

He swallowed the wheat, freshly ingrained from the field’s scythe, and gathered together in columns the salt to spread over the floor of the Cave, exiling its barrenness to the wave-front of His mother’s womb, her waters about to burst, and: Hold on to your handkerchiefs, children, the things about to blow!

And yes.

When it does, Jeronathon cascades in the direction of gravity in a whorl of aquatic envy, until He breaks surface in the eye of the storm, and gasps for breath, icy sheets of ocean sculpting his face, and the frantic prayer of his pleading mouth and bleeding gills remains unanswered by His mind, until He ultimately composes Himself a Mermaid and The Bird.

If I gotta slap a pussy-ass nigga,
I’ma make it look sexy
Kendrick Lamar, Element.

Drunk on the ablution of thought, a buoy becomes a boy, and an effervescent midnight one as well, patterned in stripes of vertical light, abob on the ocean, abob on the sky, as if he had just sprung from imagination.

‘Who are you boy?’

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

— I am the boy who lied, with penitent manacled hands at his crotch; a cruciform of a belt about a jumpsuit to rankle the gut and spoil the meat.

‘But you didn’t lie! You told me the truth…’

— At first I lied to everyone, and then I lied to you. Remember there are always different lies for different eyes. You are not “special,” but you are unique. Someone left a lump of cocaine sugar in the nest of my mouth, and stirred lazily with a tarnished spoon. If I could hear the sun roaring in my ears like Your shells locking my wrists, I would scream fie and foul on the playground. As if their pitchforks were raised against me. As if I didn’t find myself shackled to Your sea.

‘But My wisdom is un-outclassed! You cannot have bested me, your frame frail and wings clipped…’

— If I tell the truth to you again, will you unbind me?

And he vanishes into an epiphany of air, floating through nebulae gas as a fat zero behind which nothingness hides. The turgid blackness of skin and charred bone taunting departure as the dry white hyenas march militantly down from the clouds. The story was never told to Him of how to make fire, and yet He did. And the bobbing effigy of the fleeing magpie erupted in midair flames.

If asked, Jeronathon, basking in his resplendent scales of aquamarine justice, would reply:

‘We are the entropy to Entropy — and we recognize that sometimes We’re the Zero, and sometimes We’re the One. But there’s always something.’

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