The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.
Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.
Note: This poem was inspired by High Priest of Saturn, a musical group self-described as in the psychedelic doom genre. I’ve been listening to more groups like them lately, so I guess the cool band name was caught in my head!
You humiliated the Netherworld Poet + now you must pay – the only way to avoid his curse is to sacrifice your first-born son. The Poet cackles like a hyena on arid plains of this sun-soaked frontier – you dared question his knowledge of tribe + kingdom that’s your birthright to lead.
If you’ve visited my blog before, you may recognize this picture. I took it in late 2018 during a little adventure Rachel and I took in the Old City neighborhood of Philadelphia. It’s one of my favorite photos that I’ve taken from the past few years.