I don’t even want to be kind to this
Sad man. If my god were to come
For me in the same moment this
Sad man grabs for my hand in the
Parking lot, desperate now the date is
Ending—and my god were to show up
Between the parked cars all masculine in
Twilight purple, head to holy toe, I
Would wrench my hand away from this
Sad man and give myself to god rirght there–
Sad man cries and watches me
Fucking my way to apotheosis, spread
Eagle on the hood of a dirty white Prius.
It doesn’t have to be good.
It doesn’t have to be whole.
You will never know
What you never knew. Any god
Who tells you he’s honest is
A malicious liar. All gods lie
A little. We are eager for god lies
And lying gods prefer to keep us
Eager and (mostly) un-disappointed.
They tells us that cracks in the vessel
They teach us we must appreciate
the cracks. We need the cracks, we
sing. We need the cracks
To let the light in. But why, gods—
and be honest:
Did you make the vessel opaque?
Relaxing back into the same gusty god
Breath that whirled the ancient
Mystical whirling weirdos that blow me–
Joy and jealousy—away
In my dream, I asked my god to carry
Me into the black, icy ocean.
Carry me, I said, out to where
The waves are taller than you are.
Are you sure?
Those are tall waves
I’m sure. You hold me.
I’ll hold my breath.