And has this grin like he knows something more than me and can’t decide whether or not to tell me what he knows.
And I finally get him to tell me and it isn’t good/happy news. It’s actually pretty bad.
And now he’s asking me why I’m acting crabby/tired/upset.
He has called me, my mother, his best friend, and talked to two people at church about it.
He’s currently in the phone explaining how to do tags and how to make folders (which he also realized today).
When God created his angels he did not mean
to make divinely cruel urban monsters who
stalk back alleys and lurk in the shadows.
Michael breathes out smog and a Bowie knife
is clutched in his hand. He uses it for fun.
Raphael’s grin glints gold in the amber lighting:
angels live for war.
They all move as a unit. In Heaven
they were called a garrison.
Here, they are a gang.
On the other side of town is Lucifer,
pressing hasty kisses on Lillith’s neck in a
dirty restroom. Her lipstick is sin-red and smudged.
Hell is a dusty dive bar, the Throne
a battered bar stool and Lucifer reigns triumphant.
He rules the south side and tomorrow he will
battle Michael tooth and nail for the west.
God gave his angels form
and they did the rest.