Vinicius Miranda


My God is a candidate.
And he plummets into town in a stark
blanched suit,
All 3 pieces of it.
The raining sun of him,
As the sky slowly puts up its shutters.

Surrounding himself with gorillas in pearls
And risen Viking stouts on trumpets,
Playing his favorite hymn,
reminiscent of a tarantella.
He steps up onto any given bench,
On the faces of local congressmen.
And then he preaches.

He’ll dedicate himself to schooling,
If the kids are nibbling on chalk
And burning bibles.
He’ll preach starvation,
If those same have grown obese
And ungrateful.

He’ll scorch the earth of a boasting
farmer and father of seven,
turn ripe tomatoes into burst hives.
Clay bound.

When real keen on oppressing,
He oversteps,
But manages an anesthetic
For the squalling bunch.
In the shape of circus and commemorative coins.
Maybe even a street name for an alleyway.
Just at the nick of time.

At least, that’s what he says.

He says
He’d put the lazy on leave
And feed them molding bread.
And circumcise the excited
At the age of 21,
Under the belligerent tact
Of malicious celestial figurines.
Baby teeth white
kabuki type
Full of ritual and hoicking,
They’ll use a steak knife, but only because
They really want to.

He’ll turn your wine into blood
If he thinks you had a bit too much of a red eye.
More times than him,
Blood that is not even your kind.
And if you’re not all fleece
And bleating,
Waggling tail
And salivation at his every policy,
Then you’re but
Lamb meat gone bad.

In that case,
He says that you’re better off a filthy bird
than another,
in his herd of fatted calves, for

There will be nothing
for the hampered,
For the busted kneecaps, bulging tail bones,
For the disheveled or sheared,
For those that are knuckle bound
and straying.
And proud to have ceased their random clogging,
Deservedly so, it seems.

These are called minorities for a reason.
Minor worship.
Minor wishes,
Minor needs.
No priority.
And my God is for the greater populace.
And mentor to the imagination of a whitewashed Jesus.

I’ve been to the locals, at Salvation Army shops,
And have seen bruised pigeons,
While they fended for crumbs and live-wire real estate.
And plumage on racks.
The sky still dark,
dark for weeks now,
they shimmer into a huddle.
Together to try and tame their own quivering.
knowing that there was more to it all
than the ground,
But having been clipped at the wings.
Pure desolation threading a way under optimistic
legs and coats of floccus,
they don’t even bother to look up at the stomping, anymore.
My God was elected.

Vinicius Miranda is a Brazilian born French-Canadian, who currently writes out of South-Florida. He is a beachcomber living in exile, deep within the bowels of his own room. He keeps tin cans and the shiniest seashells just to the right of the desk where he does most of his typing. He talks bed sheets into cleaning up their own act and can read a broken Fender amplifier’s mind. Vinicius is also a Miami Dade College graduate with an AA degree in the field of architectural engineering and his written work has been previously published in a Crack the Spine anthology.