Michael McVey

 

Why I Never Want to Hear the F Word Again After Reading Genesis

Oh crazy one, what quiet ear remains after your daughter demanded silence?
Will your highest altar--that styrofoam clamshell midden--find a way to return as earth to earth?
Remind that son of yours he will inherit the sky he looks upon shyly:
There's room enough for all of us to pass into that presence.
The blank stare, the blank slate, the monolithic shelter a trillion ants cut:
Formless earths are always, everywhere and already, praising their lord.
How can he look upon us if he does not weep?

 

 

 

 

The Relic

I get that you forbid devotionals excepting I don’t know what else to call what you want from my spirit to yours and although you make exception for John Donne he has been dead last I checked for a very long time so it’s a questionable or dare I say throwaway dismissal of contemporary belief to hedge it off from your journal that I am sure I would enjoy reading and might even see a pillar of fire come down upon it or out of it or something like a story in Numbers that I worked through by way of audiobook while tiling a bathroom to its singsong music of campground records in a desert I have never seen although its also the acronym for the biggest bomb the military ever developed that doesn’t eat atoms just rearranges their compounds and I am sure some tribe would have liked to have back then and would have said a lot about its way of clearing a path that may be wide or be very narrow depending on the perspective elocutionists inflect in their story of its use so at this point let’s just realize that I have absolutely no desire to set apart my devotional words from evil words or greater words or to comply with your editorial request that might make life a bit easier in the short term but in the large scheme of things I am not sure how the policy or should I call it ancient prohibition remembers the praises of my many mothers who never published a syllable except through in rare cases unwitting scribes or that beautiful death-bed napkin from one of them I keep in a drawer that you probably wouldn’t accept any more than a Numbers scribe so perhaps you and them could get an RV and quit with all the tedium of tent camping or running a literary journal.

 

 

 

Michael McVey is an unpublished poet who lives and works as a remodeler in Oakland, California. Someone called his form “block form” and he sort of likes it that way because anvils and other such blocks like striking boards are very useful. Preferred pronouns: he/his