Seven billion gods woke up this morning.

Those who had it ate a little breakfast.

Of course each didn't wake at the same time,

it was like a wave in a stadium, each little god

blinking on. Those who could, sat up,

and if they had them, put on their shoes.

They awoke from dirt floors,

straw tics, waterbeds, rugs,

mattresses, couches, dumpsters,

bushes, bunkbeds, hammocks, and cots.

Somewhere, one god is waking

in the trunk of a car and only one other

god knows about it. Somewhere

the mother of a god is putting her god

in a closet. Somewhere a god is making

a Waldorf salad and somewhere

a god is taking inventory of candy.

There are so many Republican gods,

so many accountant gods, so many sex gods,

so many waitress gods, so many food-grower gods,

so many cheese-maker gods, so many sweeper gods,

so many rose-planting gods, so many lion-tamer gods,

so many teacher gods, so many bus driver gods,

so many lying gods, so many forgiving gods.

The god of me is trying to sort it out.

The god of me is sifting through fliers and catalogues,

receipts and coupons, bank statements, bills, and rejections.

The god of me almost never sleeps.

The god of me is swimming half-in and half-out of

the world's complex medium for swimming.

The god of me is scratching itches.

The god of me is breaking jars in the alley.

The god of me is taking over the hit parade.

The god of me is finally on track, pinning down a destiny.

Along the way, there are a few simple truths,

a few simple rules, commandments, doctrines,

ordinances, codes of conduct, contracts,

terms of agreement, oaths, covenants, and promises.

The god of me could use a lawyer god, an accountant god,

and a god of feng shui. How many gods are familiar

only in white light? How many gods are skirting the issue?

How many gods can dance in the Starlight Ballroom?

How many stinking gods are there?

Seven billion brains conjuring intertwined experience

is now the norm. We are scoring the soundtrack

that accompanies the film version of God's life.

We are muscling the graveyard of words into the forefront.

We are making special each one who contributed.

Plaques. Let there be lots of plaques and ribbons,

and medals and trophies, and bouquets and sashes,

and tiaras and vestments. Let there be free cars

and dream vacations. Let there be thimbles,

chaps, chain-mail, bullet-proof vests, condoms, and oven mitts.

Let there be snake oil, little liver pills, bird hearts,

and talismans. Let there be attack dogs, nuclear submarines,

air-cooled rifles, long-range missiles, and mind control.

Let there be freeways and causeways, byways and highways,

Steinways, keep-a-ways, wayfarers and waylays,

ways of the cross, wayward children and ways and means.

Let there be consonants and clergy, conundrums and corpulence,

crappies, crankshafts, and corporal punishment.

I've got a complaint for the gods.

I need somewhere to shed my grievances.

I need a place I can lay down a few burdens.

I need to speak from my heart, if I can figure out how.

I need to confess my love for irreverence.

I need to rally the naysayers. I need a spoon in the pot.

I need a kick-start. I need sustenance. I need to make it

to the top floor. I need validation and guidance

and direction and assistance and approval and acceptance

and validation. Did I already say validation? I didn't mean it,

because I need reproached, rebutted, reproofed,

and remanded. I need regulated, remedied, relegated,

and held responsible. I need relieved, replaced, reshelved,

recycled, reborn, retooled, restocked, and recreated.

I need a new lease, a new leaf, a new lining, a new legitimacy,

a new lebensraum. God help me. Oh what a headache,

so many headaches in this long meandering discourse.

Let's get back, back to the gods, the seven billion gods just waking up

rested or not, all on one floor, under one roof.