This is a trial of glue plus paint stir stick plus
picture of worship. Heavenly Father, you are
a grouch for closing my cut
with puss and infection. Look my face is
Jesus, a blaring coloring book waits
for Crayola Flesh and a beard.
A friend of Sunday school, if I
can memorize faith, I can have a king-
sized Hershey bar. If I “stay worthy”,
I can enter. A stylus over
an etch-a-sketch, God is in pentagon shapes.
God is in cells, in parallelograms, which
fit together, in children’s tactility.
In nursery, I knew scripture Bingo was delicious;
we eat cold cereal pieces once we win.
So, I have to come here three hours
for the rest of my life? Collapse
on pews, sing songs to everyone and
The Great Thou Art? So Happiness is
a foundation of a house? These metaphors
confuse right and wrong with objects, with football,
with a flashlight under sagebrush.
Maybe the word of God is blabber
and the devil with cloven hoofs means
he can climb these rocks.
If I copy the bible, I am a
saint of The Book of Mormon.
If God came to me, my face would
burn, if God touched me, he would
crucify holes out of handshakes.