Sir breadwinner, could I peek into the golden bag
carrying all the prayers in soda bottle caps?

I’ll be a supreme producer
selling souls at human’s main income,
a sunny afternoon with spiritual ascension.

I’ll redeem main’s lips but not their soul,
can I manufacture that plastic cross with you?

A god was born on a Saturday evening
against the sky as the holy universe exploded
into fiery stars & black dust

He wore the name tag: Ultimate Being
He sat with His ear to their frosty dimension
like an alien with a superiority complex.