On the first day, it was empty –
“There” was empty
There was no dawn to speak of
Nor any other painting subjects
Dimensions were debated
– it was fine
On the third day, a moon discovered hovering,
The sun seeds planted
– Tremor, shock among the now-shattered galleries
There was darkness to speak of, slowly,
And the thin everything was fine
Days after, land contracts sealed
The moon colouring the then-quiet sea,
The auburn desert filled auburn by the sun
No suspicious behaviour whatsoever
The nudge was given somewhat after ;
when the first grin spoke.
“He is the god of nothing —
If that’s all that you can see.
You are the god of everything —
He’s inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently …”
God’s dead – now
that is a catchy punchline
A groovy paradigm shift bass motif
Walking down the throbbing streets of the twentieth century
Ablaze with the absence of belief – when life learned not to
choke on the absence of purpose – while learned life
cleansed the air of the invisible
The plan – most honourable : to see through sight
Before the grey-white veil smears blindness like a wax feather
over the eyes of the witnesses
Taming the shrewd into an “unreliable narrator”
Well I am compelled to say I do not like it.
My God is not dead – He would have told me.
My God is wavelengths, high frequencies,
Iconoclast acoustic diminished arpeggio,
All run-on lines, all resonating rhymes
Discounted obscure albums
Brought back to life during sales time
– Innumerable hymns
My God is old.
(My God holds
On his back on his head all things,
arguments, points of view, jokes,
All dragons and princesses,
all forests, labyrinths,
paper idols, floral arrangements,
The Jews know : we should not called God by his name
But simply by his one quality : Eternal.
It is no matter of respect, but of accuracy.
I can draw a stick figure anywhere, graphite or ink or chalk,
And call it Adonaï, and it will be erased bit by bit
By willing volunteers.
God has no bits
He is one like – a puddle of clay
Like the rings of old
Like a Republic – But then again,
I am biased. I Iike God.
Though I suspect soon enough
other things will ring at my door
And – I suspect – will unfold my sheet
And place it over God’s face
with quiet gestures
And I won’t care about flowers, or forests
My God is not dead –
I have not told him yet.
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