When God Created Pigeons
When God created pigeons he probably thought:
Man needs a flying crap vacuum
as he reached down into his big bag of rocks
and took his Bubbalicious bubblegum out of his mouth
and made two little feet.
Then he waved his magic wand over his creation,
said something in Pig Latin
and sprinkled a little bit of fairy dust on it
to give it wings, which is why their feathers are iridescent
in the late June light at Soho park
where I eat my lunch
and watch a hostile mob of them
peck at each others’ faces
and hobble around on their little stumps of bubblegum
as they vie for their big chance at the giant hunk
of stale bagel.
I’ve always preferred to think of God as a flamboyant magician
twisting his waxy black moustache
as he doffs his top hat
from which he just pulled a platypus
to impress his only begotten son.
“I will go down to the people and show them these magical tricks and illusions,
and they will believe in you!”
said the son to his father, for he was bored and lonely.
“No, son … wait!”
But it was too late.
And so it was that Jesus came down to earth
And walked on water
And turned water to wine
And multiplied fish
And healed the sick
And fed the poor
And raised the dead
And rose again
Just like David Blaine