My God is not a genie.
He does not make crosses out of mushrooms
Nor flying angels out of hammerheads
And each night, I lay out a bowl of vinegar
To absorb the rot of my nightmare
And each morning I sit in the cool water to rinse
I wash the windows and their screens
I vacuum the baking soda from the curtains
I place sage leaves behind my back molars
And kiss the earth before my little altar
So said my Lord after the clouds broke
To reveal a hidden blue bond in the sky:
*You will not write of pain any longer.
Life will be real.
Love will be the horseshoe that never
Leaves its hoof.*
A stranger told me once,
cleanliness is close to godliness.
He told this to me having not bathed for months.
He told me this with two devils behind his pupils
And picked up his 4-stringed guitar with a broken bridge
And sang until the sun-bleached the black of dawn.
That morning the sun rose to scream-o and I left
The stranger in the purity of truth. A miracle happened.
A miracle happened.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 11:56 AM UTC
My God is not a genie.
He does not make crosses out of mushrooms
Nor flying angels out of hammerheads
And each night, I lay out a bowl of vinegar
To absorb the rot of my nightmare
And each morning I sit in the cool water to rinse
I wash the windows and their screens
I vacuum the baking soda from the curtains
I place sage leaves behind my back molars
And kiss the earth before my little altar
So said my Lord after the clouds broke
To reveal a hidden blue bond in the sky:
*You will not write of pain any longer.
Life will be real.
Love will be the horseshoe that never
Leaves its hoof.*
A stranger told me once,
cleanliness is close to godliness.
He told this to me having not bathed for months.
He told me this with two devils behind his pupils
And picked up his 4-stringed guitar with a broken bridge
And sang until the sun-bleached the black of dawn.
That morning the sun rose to scream-o and I left
The stranger in the purity of truth. A miracle happened.
A miracle happened.
