The Bread We Eat in Dreams

they have midlife crises

run out

drive a brand new hot red myth cycle

get a few mortals pregnant with

half-human monster-devas who

grow up to be game show hosts

ask themselves in the long terrible confusion

of their personal centuries

who am I, really?

what does any of it mean?

I’m so afraid

someday everyone will see

that I’m just an imposter

a fake among all the real

and gorgeous godheads.

The trickster god of silent films

knew of itself only:

I am a mouse.

I love nothing.

I wish to break

everything.

It did not even know

what it was god of

what piece of that endlessly exploding

heating and cooling and shuddering and scattering cosmos

it could move.

But that is no obstacle

to hagiography.

Always in motion

plane/steamboat/galloping horse