Gin and Cheesy Puffs

Earlier I went to the store
got some gin and juice,
cheesy puffs and a Snickers bar.
Now home drunk,
I stare down the passing cars from my window
assassinating with my gaze
all who dare veer from their lane.
The cheesy things are sticking to my back teeth
but the gin is Bombay Sapphire
so it gives the cheese a subtle edge.
The juice tastes like shit.

I peel a callous off my palm and dream of being the perfect
Christ-like savior.
Swaying through crowds at the local mall
doing poetry slams throughout southwest Michigan.

I wonder if I would save everyone
or just the beautiful women at the bar?
When I talk to God
should I use a cell phone?
If people see me talking to myself they might not
think I’m actually a demigod or whatever.
Could I still drink gin on a warm night in Otsu, Japan?
Would I have to give my sermons sober?
I don’t think the Pope could carry me from the pew.
Either way, I’d eat cheesy puffs on Good Friday.
Do I need to be circumcised?
I’m sure I know a good doctor.
The Snickers bar sounds good right now.
I wouldn’t want an amazing Technicolor coat or anything
just a warm vest or windbreaker.

Would I still be able to baptize a woman
with my holy tongue?
Would I ever hear the echoes of orgasm
grace my ear in shallow breaths?
If she screamed, “God, fuck me!” would it be sacrilegious?
Would I still be worshiped?
Would my confessions slit my wrist or make me a saint?
What if I stopped believing in myself?
Would people finally know that I’m a lost soul
disguised as a soldier of their Lord?

I’m out of cheesy puffs.
Even if I could drink more I’d still consider myself lost
and even if I had more cheesy puffs
I could never be the son of the Lord
because I am obese and
the alcohol compromises my ability
to make judgments on everyone’s souls.
So I’ll finish my Snickers bar and
wait for the real second coming.