It may be our best, biggest evidence
for God's existence,
my haughty visage,
emerging from mists like some sexy
shooting black lightning
from the huge inverted cupolas of my ears.
On the windward side
is a fresco depicting apocryphal scenes
from Rentaghost, Timothy Claypole
riding a tank into the gob of a sperm whale
while tracer fire punctuates a velvet sky.
It has suffered over the years
from natural wear and tear, accentuated by tourism,
and efforts are underway
to preserve it for future generations.
Sometimes, an archangel, Michael perhaps,
pops out my nostril like a cuckoo.
Devotees travel miles, hoping for a glimpse,
but almost always leave disappointed.