Birth of a Prophet
A swarm of sirens rush by. I stand in the middle of the street, wondering what will knock me down. And where. And how. But nothing hits me. One tall headlight squeals off my shoulder, peeling the outer layer of skin clean off. Feels how I’d imagine a shooting star would feel if it licked me on its way down. Life wants me alive. Some days I wake up knowing I’ll be lucky. What time is it? I start walking home, passing a man on the street crushing beer cans with his feet like grapes.
Full moon tonight. Once that meant something. In the moon’s fullness I felt the reassurance of love – love for humanity – all of it – the tender blue bruise poking at itself so it throbs with the pulse of the earth, whirling to the same tuneless melody each of us hums alone without ever realizing. It’s different tonight. In the moon I catch the evil eye of God. That’s the thing they never tell you. The purest love is indifferent to humanity. It’s the love of a roach secreting nectar off its hard amber back, waiting for the other to draw near. Have you ever seen roaches fucking? It’s the only thing the moon cares to watch. As for God, I can wait no longer. I look down at the dirt, where the bamboo shoots and green onions in my neighbor’s garden fidget discreetly. Tomorrow my neighbor will come down in his wifebeater and cut a stalk to use in a slow braised oxtail stew. He will beat his son then cook for him. They will eat side by side in silence. After his son goes to bed, the man will weep in his heart, fumbling towards gentleness without knowing what it is. The son will dream of bony fish marinating in brine. His father, eyes milky, blinded by cataracts, plucks the fish one by one from the sour sap with precision. In the years that follow, everything he dreams will come true.