the money he’s made
is delusional.

he comes to me with an aluminum hat
and warns me of a remote
area
that will soon take
the wrong
shack.

he watches as my mother
caresses god
with the cyclops myth
of touch.  

how many times has she washed
the defaced coin
of my stubborn look?  

though I value
over dialogue
the useless baby,

in what month is your soul?