god is real
a god is a martyr
a god is guts
seeing sun, a god
is jeff vandermeer
for gods are
the writers because
the writers write god
in form and form again
have you heard? god as
mutilating apocalyptic
crimelord god
as architeuthis dux
taxidermy the specimen
don’t call god chthulu, call
god a glass jar. call god
the lining of a sperm
whale stomach, waxy
holy secretion to swaddle
squid beaks and call
ambergris god because
evolutionary gold resulted
in perfume strong enough
to douse pheromones of
another god, call it
mycelium fear.
how vast are the roots?
will roots breach
soil like cicadas
wrap ankles, drag down, bring about
the purgatory, the liminal
underground the mushroom
and the hemiptera tunnel
to rest both living
and dead? will we shovel
dirt both alive
and dying?
a dusting mold
a house overrun
with fungal dread, go
mad imagining god driving
psychosis with only gills
and polypores emitting
spores; stems stalks
teeth scales ridges
slimy capped god because
mortal terror brings immortal
reverence drives away becoming
a body fruiting.
call god a variety show
an illusion of silks and shoes
maybe divinity is a rooster, a black cat,
cracked spectacles.
call the witch holy
with wood between
her thighs—
broomstick automaton
early gods of animated
tools, scraps, late gods
of grinding
metal: gears squeal gospel
coal belches smoldering
smoke hymns, the divine machine
could not be left out
to rust, oil god’s
pistons, find him molten
and poured and now
feed him fossils
feed him blustering
feed him lightbulbs,
enough lightbulbs chewed in metaphor
stray from science to swallow
filament, compounded watts fuel
god’s motor, is god the tarmac
or the engine
or the steamrolling
steel instead of programming
god into aluminum musculature
here’s an idea—stop.
god doesn’t need any more
software than he already has,
we need a god in oil paint
in tobacco
in flint
in ships sailing
in jasmine flowers pressed
in fat extracting aroma
in pollen both beet and honey
in animal musk
in dystopia
in fiction.