Oh God I’m hungry again,
the emptiness, the grumble,
the platters, the body.
My stomach writes menus of my failings,
and confusion sits at the table
holding pepper spray.
My body isn’t a pyramid in Egypt,
it’s an empty barren land
that Jesus forgot to water.

Empty is a sin.
Something to be avoided
at all Costco stores.
Like a take-out meal
won’t salve the ego,
or pancakes aren’t sails
in an emotional storm,
and grilling doesn’t
make it all worthwhile.

Porridge reminds me of mothers
who lost their way
to dinner table battle grounds,
a side of French cheese and soup.
Cottage cheese pasted to my thighs,
life died there as well.

I never get switched to sated,
don’t have the code to the fridge,
and wonder if fucking Jesus
would be a miracle or a culinary sin?


I’m irritated by Jesus and faith and sheep,
and by people who eat without consciousness.
It’s exhausting to be human,
but the fear of death isn’t quite as tough
as an overcooked life.

Would I still get into heaven
if I told Jesus that stained-glass windows
show beauty is on the outside,
that it’s not safe at home
so always carry a gun.


I want a Stonehenge life.
Take drugs and stay sober.
Run fast while strolling.
Ride my bike facing backwards.
Race through trees like squirrels.
Wear silk to shutter out the noise.
Have opinions while yielding.
Ride a pony with a pointed head.
Float in a large pool called infinity.
Take the path least flavored.
Live outside the rainbow.
Watch from a distance.
Chuckle from the clouds.
Negotiate through hell.
A veined sieve.
A bruised knife.
A blunt fork.
A wide spooned mouth.
A spaceship.
An orgasm wrapped in a bow.
And at least one conversation
face to face with Jesus
before I die.

I want a stoenhenge life book cover by Jules Swales
Stonehenge UK