For God’s Sake
The sake of God is a puny sake, holes full of crocus. The sake of God has a cold.
That is why you play long, nearly endless games of cards for God’s sake. That is why you take a chance on chicken for God’s sake.
A robuster sake you kill yourself for. For the sake of a cause, say, you say to yourself, you set your face on fire, you burn your face off like Sylvia Plath of a fucked-up dimension with the heat on and not just the gas on your fucked-up face for a cause.
A greater sake is Darfur, which has nothing to do with God’s congested sake. Something dark and dangerous in Africa where the music is better but no one knows it. For the sake of the Jews, time traveling to rip Hitler’s moustache off his face, to slap him in the rain with it – the rain or the moustache or the time traveling. Like he’s Charlie Chaplin instead.
But he’s not Charlie Chaplin, he’s Hitler, and you’re dead in the past for the robust sake of the Jews and the gays and dark-haired people everywhere and you are blond even. God’s sake is nowhere to be seen.
God’s sake is such a weakly sake. God’s sake is in the last minutes of ebola virus. God’s sake is a poor dumb bird whose ribs snap open in the wind: it’s crucial organs are falling out for God’s sake.
There is mostly a great middle-sized sake, not so dark and deep as Africa or long-gone/ still-needed as the sake of the Jews.
This sake, we see here, most often needs beer. It is a great middling thirst sake. It is not like my grandmother – she is not herself – she is dead. For this sake, for its firm gut, hard lines and bright ties, we toast; we lie silent. For the great middling sake of so far this year, here, on the plains that we moved to from places of the same sake, we must sometimes dress for the occasion. A scarf. Hair mousse. Something that used to be alive, like a grape, or a raisin, or a belt of seeds. The bread gut. For the sake of said. For the sake of the fertile crescent, which was the great sake of its time like the thirsty cock-wielding and middling sake is the great sake of our time this morning on the plains and for the places we come from, and for the places that want to be like our places.
For the great middling sake of our time today in the heat and cool with coffee here, we read. We glue packs of paper together and then glue together those sets of papers glued together, and then for that great sake, we glue a harder, thicker piece of paper around them and call them ‘great books’.
Sometimes, if there is no glue but if there are cat guts, we use cat guts to sew, and we drink to the great middling sake of great literature.