a one-sided dialogue with god 


one cup of tears, 
the sky has refused to break with day.
two cups, my body is the anatomy of pain.
i number my problems in threes 
and marvel at its lengthy uniqueness.
four strikes is enough to move a soul to the clouds
but you gave me more than a life and unlike the cats, 
i wear this curse with a pair of lagging optimism. 
the night calls me different, 
says i can never live in the same world as the day
so on the fifth hour, when i yearn for a pinch 
of anything anonymous to this darkness, 
i walk into my mother’s prayer room. 
in this temple 
had the sun dissolved into my mother’s eyes. 
her eyes, a fine solution of proliferated acid tears,
hope, and a luminous moon. 
lord, this is the sixth time in a millisecond 
my brain has birthed another theory;
that you turned mother into a widow 
before she could write a note on her first orgasm, 
is because father might have been the reincarnation 
of her father’s killer. 
did the seven commandments make us this watery? 
or is it you that melt our bodies in some lab? 
for we have become a sea of unanswered prayers, 
flowing in space and tents like molten juice 
climaxed out of a mountain’s butt hole. 
i knew that your ears were somewhere 
in the body of a motile furnace 
the night i became a heterogeneous mixture 
of lesser soprano and more plea 
chanting reasons why my teenage father 
must not be thrown to the ground.
even the wind pitied the woman who lost her husband 
in a battle with his god, and her son to madness. 
eight lives down, lord, cook me till i am nothing.
cut these lungs off, so i need not query
when the angels do not write back to mother. 
so i do not have to be entangled with fate 
and just die a final time.