The Golem of Los Angeles

The Dead God Codex

79 The Dead God Codex Who knows what the world is? i charged my Nietzsche textbook at the bookstore, hoping that some grandeur after the death of God would flame out shining from the pages, but i was shaken, crushed like foil, the shopboy scowled at me, damn him and his nose ring, the cumulonimbus clouds gathered greatness, dark, like the ooze of oil, and i ran among crushed men reckoning how far to my car as the fat drops fell like rods, generating splashes as i trod, and all the neons seared my eyes, trading words with me, Vacancy, Tattoos, Hot Croissants, as through the bleared smeared window of the french Bakery the female baker toiled wearing a man’s smudged shirt and shared with this man the smells if not the flesh, if not the soil or soul, no bare foot feel of being in the shoddy world, no croissant for me. Nature is somewhere, spent but there, and still, one guesses, living, since that’s what nature does, living with the dear freshness of deep things, but i lived then in Los Angeles, and, home, looking out the window as the last lights blackened to the West, i went traveling towards morning, riding my soggy bed, until from the brown smoggy brink of the world eastward came springing what we have instead of the Holy Ghost, bent sunlight over the world brooding, warm, comforting as breasts, flying on one bright wing. ...