God in the small things.

I want Javier Bardem to fuck me

but I do not want him to be my God.

This time, I need the howling, pliant,

longing thing moving through me

to be flesh, not spirit -- for once.

Mark these years and their occultic

movements with the number of tongues

that touch your nipples. A lover who touches

your stretch marks in idle delight and in greed,

better than any possible  heaven. Bones

claved in a rough pleasure. I age, hear less

of you in my ear and more of the eternal hum,

unceasing, the bee and mayfly buzz of persisting.

Stop fighting off the fire and learn how to burn

better, how to grieve each thing until it feels

something like Christ saying to the prisoners today

you will be with me in paradise, and embracing

each suffocation between be and me. I place

my crystal wherever other people can touch it,

ask them to steal it, let my dumb house torch and twist forever

because I long and without it, I do not. I am on your left,

always, sinister, stretching into the thing my existence

knows itself to be. Lazy verse versus lazy, my real

and metaphorical dad says to me, all things same,

all things given, all things equal, all things said:

I yoke. I pull. I plead. I wake.