Mercedes Lawry
Believe It Or Not

So I gave up on God, so what. So you die and that's the final puff, the ebbing electric zap, zzzzz. Can I have an Amen? The jokesters and tricksters are do-si-doing in the back room, thick with cigar smoke and bourbon stench. I've seen it, THE END, nothing like the movies aside from some European new wave that went off track, drowning the central metaphor. Little fins, little fishy gills. Was it stumble or slither? My folded hands unfold. Notice the ragged nails, crisscross valleys on blurred skin. No testifying, no holy mother of mercy, no sireee Bob. The weather of faith turned nasty, almost to sleet, one way, then another, vacillating. Plunk on the roof, tick at the window. And dust on every surface in the room. That's everlasting.

Graphic: "Toronto Harbourfront," John Oughton