god is made from putty and rock and fire
and placed on mountains and clouds
and
on a couch somewhere
god the father is a mother
a troublesome foe
you
because a coin has two sides
when it stands on its edge, eternity affirmed
we wait for it to fall
god is semen and egg and toast
and river and gate and computers
chaos and chaos and chaos and
sleep
a long time ago we put god in chains
made god a slave
to jump through hoops, clouds
real estate
windows
war
we use god like a golf club
the big head for longer drives
the flat one to eat the rolling earth
america is mad when sorrow speaks
"just use the club! the big one! praise god!"
my father became a man when he was old
before then?--furies, booze, suspicion, disdain
ah, but when he aged
he saw his hands as angels
and walked his dog
in the cool of the evening
there is not a box in the world
stop trying to put things in it
when you wrap a gift
you are already inside
+++
Comments
Having the family eat dinner together is a sacred tradition that I will never treat lightly. Perhaps my feelings about this subject stem from my own childhood when dear father would regale my siblings and me with tales of how each of us would pay dearly for any attempts at conversation during our evening meal. Since then, much has been forgiven between father and I, as my lawyers so elegantly pointed out in the restraining order. Love bears all things, and what it won’t bear can often be chillingly detailed in legal language.
One of the funniest damned things I ever read.