Straight out the rib I say “why’d You have to make him so pussy, couldn’t You have given him a pussy?” He ain’t answer but that boy tells me he named a monkey after me—“boy, a monkey?”—and says I should have felt flattered. Anyway we vibe and shit, walk together talk together, but I always know I’m the shit because I give him the good head and ask Him the good questions like, “why come we can’t ask the angels these questions?” And He’s all, “seek Me for knowledge,” which just gives “shut up, don’t ask,” and also that He knows more than they do, which why because don’t they fly around too? And why can’t we, why ain’t we got wings? But I’m “discontent” whatever whatever. Anyway I stay finding the best food so I go off on my own like always. And this pretty-ass basilisk pulls up, talm bout “you so fine,” which duh I know, I got a man that tell me that every day? And I also got the life-giving soul-sucking coochie so?? But It was kinda fine too so I was half listening. And It’s spittin all this shit about the good fruit, yadda yadda don’t care already know, but tell me why It says: “this one’ll give you knowledge.” Which is what I wanted from jump. To know. And be known because I know good and damn well that boy don’t know me any more than he know the bush between his legs. So I go, “know more than i do now?” And It says, “yeah,” and I go “i don’t think i’m a woman.” And It kinda frowns and goes “that’s not part of The Story” and I’m like “The Story??” and then an angel pops out from behind the next tree over and says “i’m not a woman either.” Which don’t make sense because none of the angels have gender? I don’t think? And I tell the angel and they’re like “no, because Michael, Gabriel, ‘n’ ‘em? all the messenger angels are guy-ngels,” and I’m like “messenger angels?” And the angel goes “oh you’re not at that part yet.” And then it looks hard at me. “you don’t have to be a woman” and I say “i’m not” and my hand is still on the tree trunk. “i’m supposed to build the world with this,” I point at my bush and the basilisk whispers “i know” and I look at the angel’s wheels.
When folks ask, I tell ‘em it ain’t taste that good.
