His teeth were ochre pebbles
From the smoking of His pipe—
He bowed down to my bleeding feet
And sang God-awful tripe
“Life is but an odyssey,
  Can’t you open your eyes and see?
  A lot of it is smoke and mirrors
  But the rest is truly ecstasy!”
He tapped my crimson, gushing foot and got up from His knees
To sit down in His musk-rose bed where He settled His old head.

My face began to boil red until I could no longer contain my head and I burst out
at my Old Man hoping it’d make blood flood from His hands!

“Just who the **** do you think you are, God?
How can you say you see?
You know nothing of the Earth
And the nightmares that it breeds!
Did you notice Abu Ghraib,
the torturers’ many ways?
How theft is easy for gangsters
While children starve for days?
Puh!
You just sit here on your musk-rose
Cuddling its soft, fuzzy petals,
You’re nothing but a spoiled child
Who has never desired to run wild!”

And at this, Father whispered from his bed,
“Capricious, I have been
  But I cannot be blamed.
  People choose their lots in life
  For free will is their fame.
  If I gave them acres of land and
  a home that doesn’t weather,
  their bones would turn to tether.
  You think I owe everyone the world,
  And all the fruit it grows,
  But the sweetest peach you reach yourself,
  And this you already know.”

When my Father’s words had stopped
My eyes caught the throbbing wounds;
The skin blanketed the open flesh
And Dad said, “The infection won’t heal soon.”