Lately my complaints against God
go nowhere, which means
he’s listening to every word.
The master of revels and his murder kit.
Catastrophe’s
yield increase
from the fucking throne of goodness.
In a cloud chamber,
God would be cloud.
A little visual frankness
always appreciated—
God like the Fuller Brush man
right there on the torched doorsteps
of Tornado Alley!
Instead,
the planets do their old soft shoe
(my mother’s white blood cells kicked
ash to her lungs
in 4/4 time),
and the tinfoil stars
placate remotely:
one more fatal outbreak of
faith along the Gaza Strip,
one more
hemorrhagic sunset at the melting poles.
Hello? Hello?
God keeps himself
to himself; that’s how he stays
perfectly composed.
Or is God just the quietest drunk at the cocktail party
we keep throwing
in his name?
Endowed Distinguished Annihilating Visiting Professor of Cultural Production, Emeritus,
famous, once,
for lecturing
ad infinitum, with fly unzipped?
It only matters if I’m still listening.