It's unlikely that some sort of retribution awaits

I trembled at the early sound

of the voice of God, spoken

through the mouth of Priest.

It was heavy, a thick, menacing

sound which pointed its slimy tongue

smeared in yellow nicotine in my face.

so I killed him.

I killed God, re-inventing it as

a genuine "wholly ghost".

Priest said I was made in "His" image

and I didn’t like it.

I wanted to be taller.

but I liked Angela Santanegro

who lived on the second floor 

of a three-tenement on Bedford

across from Marzilli's Bakery and I liked

the junkyard where I once touched

an Edsel's hood as if feeling for a heartbeat

and I liked the little “Nite Owl” diner

on the corner of Pleasant and Eastern Avenue

where I lunched on mouth-watering

hot cheddar cheese sandwiches served on

steamy hamburger buns and regardless

of potential retribution, poetry is all truth all the time.