gosling

Everywhere I go there's a Caution Wet Floor sign, and I can't slip on the soapy vomit from all the feverish addicts, there are holes in my skin like the life of a conservative Catholic, I try to flip channels but I see statues being vandalized and bathroom stalls with pamphlets clogging the drains in the urinals, and the custodians grew up in rich neighborhoods with healthy grandfathers who played gleaming shiny fucking grand pianos, joined cults and orchestrated feasts for fish, they swam upstream with yellow spraypaint seeping from their bloody mouths, they swim through sewers and they reach the pipes, they swim up sewage systems and up into the light, finding themselves in toilets, fish staring up at the mall security in blue suits with brushed hair and a radio in his car, a secret cannibal that sees this graffiti scrawled in the parks by suburban ladies, Western morals, devil's music and the color black, a dripping marker, a flickering computer monitor, an investigation led by an agnostic deputy high-school graduate, above the peer pressure he now sits on a gnarled wooden desk, feels the urge to piss, so he stands, leaving the open case file, and goes into the bathroom stall through a series of violin strings he realized the dripping mockery of Jericho, that is the religion of this vandal--a diabetic, peering into a dark forest the cop is forced to follow, chasing the kid through purgatory and stumbling on ferns to reach their mothers, both scared, and finally they know what they've been running from and God is a gosling with a backpack, hat and black bandanna, standing still.