By Matt Jones
Which god did Kris Jenner cut a deal with
because I want their number, want their
constellation, want their list of acceptable
sacrifices. I am willing to give
my pinky finger and at least half a
dozen exotic fowl for my own morning
talk show, an entire odd-toed ungulate
on the brink of extinction for my own
media empire. Get me the deity
that does her PR. I am still on the
outs with White Peony and Pheme and
three of the seven Erotes. I have grudges
that I wish to transmute into wishes,
tapes of me worshipping myself that I
need to upload to the cloud, the one named
after the nymph Nepehele who left Athamas
for Ino-Leucothea of the beautiful
ankles. I don’t want to be a star but
a begetter of things bright and dark,
light and what swallows it up. What is
the universe made of? What is the name
for that atramentous matter of
possibility? I refuse to
entertain either theories or ideas.
I want someone to build a shrine to me.
Matt Jones is a graduate of the University of Alabama MFA program. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Southern Review, The Atlantic, Ruminate, Wigleaf, Post Road, The Journal, and various other publications.