Popcorn Universe

In the beginning, There was light.

Setting: God's kitchen.

Prop: A microwave oven.

Action: An invisible ray, imperceptible

To all but the All-Seeing, I fly 

Towards my date- the lady

In the tan dress- wearing 

The customary purplish bow tie

and a fresh birthday suit 

(because gray pin-striped suits

have not been invented yet). 

This is a race I was poised

To win from the start. And though 

I had aimed for  my target, 

Was filled to the electron 

With positivity, 

I am missing the target by a miserable 

millimetre; Positivity is overrated.

A second ray - my brother, my rival- 

Happy to see me fail

( because unconditional love

Is conditional sometimes) 

Launches next, Only to also miss 

The target, but by a wide inch,

Nose kissing the smooth, pallid floor. 

At least I get a laugh out of this.

The third suitor, penetrating

The sweet spot, Melts through

My lady's hard outside shell 

Like a burning kerosene-

Laced iron knife 

Searing through my frozen skin. 

I hold back  a tear.

Red sparks fly, shine through the looking

Glass to the other side, from where the 

Forever Present watches the goings-on 

Intently. The motor sputters, 

A gray smoke escapes 

From the back of the torrid oven. 

It rattles, rattles, stops. 

"Drats" He exclaims, clenching

His right fist Around

A yet unexistent stress ball. 

He approaches His left hand, cautiously 

Opens the door, then slams it shut. 

He pops behind, then

Pummels the machine on the back. 

The shocks vibrate through me,

As through a string, taut,

Plucked by a giant index.

A steady hummmmmmm escapes

The Creatorium. The churning resumes.

My lady's dress is now inverted. 

Her core looks crisp, is crisp, 

Oh so crispy. It all looks extra 

Crunchy. I feel my salivary

Glands rejoicing.

The All-Knowing presses the stop button,

Which has been calling

To Him for a minute now, 

Screaming "I'm reeady, I'm reeady,"

In the tone of an angry alarm clock.

But Nothing happens. He pushes

Said button again. The machine

Snarls then keeps going.

It might be too late. 

Inertia seems to have taken over.

The process cannot be stopped.

Or maybe... A hit

On the head- solves nothing.

A black smoke oozes

From the feathers Of my 

Lady's now shrinking, darkened wings.

Her feathery lines turn to wrinkles, 

Wrinkles get wrinklier. He pours

Water - a flood's worth-

Over the machine but it keeps

Heating up. "A little fire perhaps" 

He says as he snaps his fingers 

To whirl out holy fire that comes

Crashing onto the glass . 

This makes things worse. 

Desperate, he pleads, "Some salt then?" 

Nothing.

"Goddammit! I knew this would happen"

He turns away, a wrinkle on his forehead.

"Oh well, there will be 

Other universes to create." he scoffs

As He skips to the file cabinet 

where another tanned lady awaits.