The Missing Commandments

It wasn't so much dictation as
divine editing: Thou shalt not adore
the abacus, nor the lightning bolt,
nor the garland, but especially not
that stupid fatted calf, which Moses
wisely condensed to false idols.

Others were hardly applicable—
Thou shalt not rubberneck—
when He knew the people of Israel
were stiff necked. Others still
just gibberish—Thou shalt not
imitate foghorns with an empty flask,
nor endlessly quote silly movies, nor
stick your finger into live sockets—
and thus were discarded.

Moses listened to the voices rise up
from his stomach, growling,
to the angels who buzzed
his head like bees. The list continued
like a rain of arrows and only a few
found their mark. He carved deep
into the 39th night, diligent, heavy tablets
breaking his knees, a bloodied finger
as chisel.

His homecoming was not what he expected.
He was offered no food or wine, the villagers
too eager and anxious. What the Hell
took so long? He was a changed man,
worn, afraid to admit that the voices
never ceased, that there was no end
to what was required of them. Even now,
there was the babbling brook, whispering leaves,
the squeaky wheel—all demanding
that he listen, record, obey.

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