The first ones to go would be the tasteless, anyone who has wielded unrhymed sacred text as armament, made body holey with Leviticus or even denied a name at holiday dinner. I’d be an Old Testament type—no, Greek—know fear as I cast down my wisdom in the form of lightning bolts, flooding Southern towns that build billboards for blond Jesus. Thou shall have no other before me in hairy legs and platform heels. Next I’d come for the trailer parks (not that the salt of the earth have wronged, but to deny shame of my own genesis) leaving only the baby butch toughs to testify, to reinscribe the words awesome and enormity with the weight they’re due. The rich, I’d eat whole, consuming capital and shitting out bread and boutique health clinics. This hunger not only devastates, but lets rise thrift store monarchs, the most clever among you, now kings in their knock-off luxury, now queens in their shoplifted MAC. I’d tear to timber every suburban church, in part for their precepts but more for their aesthetic—how dare build anything but peacocked glory, stone and glass phalluses. Look now to the lesbian witches in hiking boots—let them show you what structures the moon desires.

I am everything you say I am. Witness my agenda: shade and spite, swallowing men whole.