Little Things

Trying on his shoes she was surprised by how tight they fit. He walks bigger than he lives. Unboxing her crayons she began to color in. A long series of outlines. This paper. And a heavy press. She was noticeably vexed by the images showing through from the other side.

Trying on his shoes she thought god's feet would've been bigger. That his suit would be tailored to his size. As small as it is. Strange how tiny he was. And how everyone else who was over sized.

Take me on your journey. In dry markers and empty pens. You haven't even tried. Just gave up at the apes. This can this suffocating heaven is not your best work.

We can still walk. With our feet naked in the dirt. No need for shoes to specify how small we are.

We can still flee this stifling Eden. The bite marks in the apple turning brown. We grew so much bigger than you expected. It's no wonder you don't want to be found.

He left his shoes behind. For her to walk in for a little while longer. She tried. Loosened all the laces. But it was no use. Her feet were too big. His world too small.

The Failing Girth of Heaven

I slept til noon. Then still I slept some more. In a brittle bed of feathers and dust. The cellar in her thighs holding me hostage. For all the ways I had used the truth to my advantage.

We climbed tall buildings alone. To discover each other at the top. And jump off together. We bathed in the blood of the lamb while grooming the lions. The potency of real bedtime stories on the cusp of our lips. As we said only what was to be heard. In long stairways. Leading up to musty boxes. Filthy with too many of the precious things we've neglected.

I woke up. In his hungry arms. Certain he'd devour me. Like any god he expected all of me.

As with any paradise. It was only temporary.

The 16th Dimenison

Time. Proliferations on a mad abacus. Add. Subtract. Petty differences. In the frown on her breasts. God. She asked. Why do you hide. What are you afraid of.

People he said.

It was my fault. I let them decide.

The teachers all stopped. Stunned. As she tried on the empty skin. Of the doll they assumed broken. God she said, you don't listen very well. You don't listen much at all. But we still do.

You blame us. We blame you. Isn't that the reason for religion. The animal. With the thorn in its paw. These thumbs you've given us. Pushing it in deeper.

My many time machines try, but fail to solve this conundrum. What if is god bored of us. What if he would rather we save ourselves.

What if god doesn't exist (He doesn't). We're talking (Always talking). Don't hear. (Don't listen). Each other.

There's nothing to save where we've come from.

Nothing (Everything). Choices. Combusting in a tunnel of flesh. Arrogant gods still buying into the hand.

Symptons of God

Just raise your arm and I'll remove the rib. It won't be that bad. I'll do it fast.

She busied herself tracing the scars on her fingers. Burned out lanterns in empty rooms. She wrote her letters to god. In the big, cursive script of a a child yet to encounter the devil.

She asked her whys and her hows. Just as certain that she was the first to try as all the billions prior. Jump ropes the voices muttered as she examined the ink on her aging letters to him.

Gods are like gravity. They pull us down. When we need it and when we don't. Fists to big to resist. Full of ladders that always fall short of the heavens.

She dreams of when he was a child. A lost infant overwhelmed with the world he would create. Born into the nothing he would make real.

From the blood of his mother's womb. The child spat forth. Eager to conquer the despot called time. Who was she. The woman that birthed us god. Why does no one ask. Where he is. Where he comes from. Why he's so hard to find.

Perpetual Motion

It's supposed to hurt. Yes. That much. This is Disneyland for the consciousness. Villains and all. You don't get to just wake up. You have to survive the nightmare. Learn the math. Skin plus skin is an atrocious sum. You don't see god. You just see am excuse. To stay the same.

The zipper on her lips coming undone. In a flourish of blood. Each word wounded. And every bandage too thin. As she tries herself on once again. With Lucifer in her pocket. And Jesus in her fist. She talks in minus and listens in division.

Solving quickly for x. Selling off her gods for the comfort of demons.

God comes in snapshots. Pictures process the flesh. Empty pens stab the blankness. Crippled gods on their last confession. Admit we are nothing. Salvation suffers through the pasteurization of skin. It's too hot in heaven to die. It's too cold in this world to live.

I dream of Beethoven. I wake up deaf. I can't hear god. But I can read his lips.

Single White God Seeks...

It was a bloody birth. On the corner of the bed. As god's breasts heaved with the toil of labor. Through a small passage the large head emerged. Sticky red and eager to embrace the hyperbole that had made it famous.

She reached a stubby finger way back. Into the abyss between tooth and gum. A blunt pitchfork stabbing for used meat. And missing scraps of divine intervention.

No miracles in my gruel tonight she muttered. As the cracker's paste slid from where her wisdom teeth should've sprouted. Empty, hard jaws chewed on the gospel called death.

God knelt down beside her and lifted up her dress. The pretty things he had created now so ugly with decision. It's a shame he sighed as he began to penetrate her. that a penis is no longer just a penis. A vagina not simply that.

It's depressing said god. The people that love me, I hate them. And the ones I do love don't even believe I exist. It's not easy being omnipotent. It's lonely really.

So many people talking. No one listens.

Dividends

Maybe it was the bear on the porch. Minor miracles. If there can be such a thing. Perhaps it was the chocolate on my lips as the summer sun brought my insides to a boil.

God laid down in my bed. As ill kempt as it was. He said. Wake up. Right where you are. As you have been. Teasing the portal. That flexible membrane between words and skin. That the foolish call heaven.

Don't sleep. Time is too fickle to remember you. Don't touch. Feel. All the angels in your drug. A million empty pens gauging the paper.

Satan is always an asset. When you're sober. God is always a liability when you're not.