Ricardo Moran




The Holy Ghost ate the stars.
Pulled them, plucked them from the blue sky
and crunched them like Funyuns from a 7-11.

Licking its fingers, it tossed their bones to street dogs.

For this was a Holy Ghost unlike any other,
a two-dimensional apparition
who held the word of God by its legs,
and discarded it like a candy wrapper
at a Wal-Mart parking lot.

It swore there was a problem,
that secret Santas sold children as furniture pieces,
that space lasers lit the planet like a barbecue,
that Sleestacks from Land of the Lost were our neighbors.

And its cup must runneth over at 4:20, for its hand is in
the cookie jar, fire ants scaling it, swarming, ravenous.

This is a Holy Ghost that I do not recognize,
for it incinerates the stars into a blanket of ash.

And behind its curtain of secrecy, it drops more digits,
while I, faithfully, turn mine up.