The old gods were more fun, with their soap opera of betrayal
and brain babies, surprise identical twins, and dressing up
as forest animals. The old gods were a lot. Much
muchness. Even the current gods are nothing like
they used to be, with their blighting and smiting, all flashing lights
and crazy stuff with fire and water. They’ve now entered
quiet middle age, watching TV I guess, and no longer
rolling up their sleeves and getting down to it. I get it.
I’m thinking about deleting my social media accounts, too.
And we’re all less interesting than we used to be.
When I get a notification from Snapchat saying “Hey John
watch this” I do not watch this. Like the embarrassment
that our desires are common, that our tastes are like instant
coffee, which really isn’t bad at all, I’m sorry to admit.

*

What the old gods thought was fun wasn’t fun for people anyway.
It’s like the gods had no frontal cortex. Have mercy, we say,
on my attempts at joy. It would be so easy to extend
mercy, and still, no dice. I took a test.
It says I worry about things. Like I needed a test for that.
And for this, I think up a complicated personal
metaphysics, cribbing from the Magna Carta
and continental philosophy,
incandescent across the garden,
with the first peonies and coneflowers, pure white
at the edges, an almost solid push, like the kind of belief
one can only play, like children’s laughter,
like one day it will be true,
and candles float in dixie cups down rivers in my mind.