BY JARRID DEATON
Just those. The ones in red. Flashbulb questions, just checking memories, validating things. The last one, though, it’s a question for God. This is for the father as God, not the Holy Trinity, but a man in a checkered shirt with chipped thumbnails and knuckle bruises. God with his back to the wall, the crimson interrogative lapping at his toes. The stand-in for God is the kind of guy who wants to be a machine, to keep everything external. He believes everything broken can be fixed with enough pressure, the stripping of bolts, spraying of oil. An overturned bowl of Cheerios, golden circles soaking up the red, is an all too human image for him to effectively process. This survey for you and the God-Machine is based on blood like some kind of universal ink that pumps and pulses. Answer the ones in red as instructed and leave the last for father-machine, the stumbling God, as the tide rises to his ankles and his skin starts to rust.
Jarrid Deaton lives in Eastern Kentucky. He once painted his face in blood during a softball game.
A-Minor 