Adrian Gibbons Koesters
Adrian Gibbons Koesters’ first book of poems, Many Parishes, was published by BrickHouse Books in 2013. Her work has appeared in the Inflectionist Review, Hotel Amerika, the Gettysburg Review, under the gum tree, and elsewhere. She lives and writes in Omaha, Nebraska.
A Modern Prophet Says a Prayer on the Day Shortened by 1.8 Millionths of a Second
after Fukushima Daiichi reactor meltdown, March, 2011
The nuclear pipes burst last night, and we’re all Back off, man, what? I mean, what? I mean, the first news was like shattering, it was like brilliant. We were all, O no! O no! Not again! I can’t take it! The water, the water!!
I love that kind of talk. Today, however, a muted kind of disbelief seems to be taking over our sensibilities, a species of ineffability appears to be coming over us, at least here a thousand or so feet up on the natural buckle.
Okay. Shut up. I’ll do it. Here is your virtuoso prayer, okay:
I’m making a donation of bread in your names. I’m sitting next to you on the vintage sidewalks. I’m doing the bleak blanket thing for you, right? Hey, practicing Catholic in the room, okay?
No good? Yeah, I know. This is no argument, and we need an argument. We need to fix it.
I mean, prayer. I mean, right?
Yes, that’s a very polite nod. Thank you. Groan. Har.
All right, so I don’t know about you all,
but my days of weed and blow are pretty
much over, plus I’ve lost my last pipe in this
old bag here, virtuoso ice tramp that I am,
so we’re going to have to do some thinking
instead. That’s too bad, lol.
Still, let’s put our cards on the table here:
No, seriously. My mystical perceptions have been given the nod. Uh huh. Yeah, okay. All right.
Roll up the sleeves, darlin.
Lord, take my armpits, send them to Honshu Island.
Or my skin, my sweat, or I’ve got several shoes
in which you might be interested. They are made
of leather, though, I feel I should mention it.
Yes, you’re quite right. Perfectly inadequate. How about this one:
What do you need, God, in an acceptable manner?
The floods have come, the earth is swallowing them.
The fires are burning themselves now.
They are dragging old persons up the muddy hills,
lining them up before the Geiger counters.
Okay, I mean, we know You didn’t say for them to do that, but you know what I mean. Your credibility on the flood issue, for starters, is waning quite a bit at the moment.
I’m losing track of what it is we’re here for. This isn’t working. Is it bad that I’m thinking of the dogs and the dolphins at the moment? Well, you know what that’s about: Entitlement, riiiiight.
Begging your pardon, to resume: The prisoners have the blue hoods.
WHOA! Okay, sorry, whoa. Whoa. Beg pardon. Lost track for a second.
But that’s it, really. I don’t know what else to say. You know the rest. Lord. Still, as you realize and as I think about it, I myself have a reputation to protect here:
What in the fucking fucking hell does He want now?
they are going to ask me. I mean, given the present indices.
That you are that kind of God.
I swear, I swear to God, this is all we are saying:
Give us the word, Old Thing. We’re ready. I mean, we’re right there with you.
Say the goddamned word.
That’s it, really. Amen.