God is everywhere, they say, so why not

kissing the dice in your hands,

arm around your neck, guiding the fall

of a grown man in a feather boa

just enough that he avoids a fractured pelvis,

taking the wheel or the traffic light

so your commute is that much easier. I mean,

you deserve it, you dropped a nickel in the basket

& God remembers. His mind is like a bear trap,

which is why He tips the neck of his beer a tad

before drinking it, setting it on the coaster,

which is really a miniature cloud,

as He kicks back & digs a thumb in his arch,

maybe even swears when the angels can’t hear Him.

They’re always thundering in & asking

when He’ll get back out there

—the brave ones, the ones with nerve.

When trying to fall asleep, I like to imagine Him

catching up on paperwork. I remember that

I, too, am a father—36 trillion cells

capable of what seems like an infinite amount

of worry, painfully aware that I can’t control everything,

which I guess is why I pray, why I look tired

in so many photographs. Love does that.

Sacrifice. Being everywhere all at once

must be exhausting. I imagine even ethereal

beings have limits, which might explain why

every time God catches praise,

there’s a bullet going so fast, He misses it.

My wife goes missing on a hike, then

my kids, then the lambent stars & Saturns

on their ceiling, the laptop, the smartphone

& miscellaneous gadgets, TV, a half-eaten jar

of peanuts, sad ties drooping in the closet

by the moth-eaten shirts & shoes & dresses,

which also disappear, as the shingles unhinge

& fling toward the horizon, the sheet rock

turns to snow & the studs tip over like a train

of dominoes, with the last one falling at my feet.

But it doesn’t end there. I’m disfigured,

blinded by the blistering sunlight,

with a sinking feeling that I’ll have to start

all over again, unforgivably late,

& not a soul on Earth will recognize me—

Damn, my therapist says, that’s bad alright,

closing his notes like a coffin.

is u have to sit through all that gooey bullshit

about the world & love & blah blah blah

& just nod like ur taking it in.

everywhere u go: the supermarket,

the principal’s, they all seem so damn cheery

all the time—it’s enough to make u sick.

all those smiles plastered on their faces

like I don’t know they’re fake, salty, like

thank u Mr. So-&- So, so nice to see you

& ur basic house & ur basic car

& everyone’s selling a ten-minute miracle,

including probably him in some office downtown

they say I can possibly, one day, maybe fit into

like there’s a recipe for turning this whole world

into something edible, marketable, slathered

in lip gloss & some disgusting perfume

that would send me to the hospital if it didn’t

snatch away my breath & make me all wobbly-

kneed, especially on the girl from third period,

but it’s more than just her, it’s debilitating,

& I know ur supposed to be vulnerable

in these things, so I’ll admit that after

my neighbor’s suicide, I thought about it

for a minute, how sad u’d have to be,

& I don’t really hate the world that much,

even though it’s sometimes almost unbearable

& I say that only because this block right here,

as far as I know, is the only place in the universe

u can take a crushed aluminum can

from the street & stick it on the back of ur bicycle,

where it becomes a megaphone shouting something

I don’t even know, but it’s loud & dope

& for a second sort of beautiful…

& the birds & the oak trees & blah blah blah