I walked along an isolated beach, along a lonely stretch of madness against an angry sea.
"Please, God. Please spare me from your violent grandeur," I said, my arms holding tightly a bag of hot dog buns against my chest. "Spare me the deadly wave, God. Spare me the gusting winds against the rocky shore, the bolts of white lightening from a greying sky."
In the distance men stood around a parapet of fire and twisting smoke. When I came close enough to see their faces, my spirit froze, my heart stopped. They were a gang of murderous ghastly men: the conquerors of worlds, cultures, and any collective of civilized persons. They were genocide's architects. They were the makers of death camps, deadly decrees, rampages of killing conquest. Hitler, Stalin, Ghenghis Khan, Mao, Pol Pot--all roasting weiners on a beach of madness under stormy clouds.
"How much for the buns?" Pol Pot asked.
"Two-fifty," I said shakily.
He gave me two dollars without a word and pulled the plastic bag away from me. Rude and a killer too, not to my surprise. But there was a surprise for them. In each bun were the million angry souls of murdered victims, of live's cut short at the hands of these sorcers incarnate. With each digestive gulp their bloody spirits would be flayed a million times in painful, eternal retribution. If there is a God, was I doing his work? Or was this another night time dream of justice finally rendered?
Poetry Pantry #412
23 hours ago