Some say that if there is
a singular God
he’s a mad male monster
and we ought to stick him
in a dumpster and move on.

Some say the God they know
smells like grand incense and 
is made of love and gentle words.

Some say sulfur
is heaven’s breath and
you’ll smell it forever
in hell to remind you of God’s
withheld kiss, if you
don’t watch out,

and some say, c’mon,
you morons, you children, 
you can’t prove God,
and they shit on the notion,
laughing as they make you
wipe up after.

If you have a moment, 
I’d like to tell you about
the God I don’t worship
but keep at arm’s length
because of all those people
I just mentioned:

you scare me, all of you
whose certainty blinds you
to how often received truth
changes. See, 

the God I refuse to worship resides
in a crack in a dungeon wall,
holds a handcuff key sacred
without having hands, seeps
like groundwater up to the surface
in the dark and soaks the land
into growth,

but never, ever
causes anything
to happen. 

I don’t understand it,
neither do you,
but clear as day
there’s the water, 

there’s definitely
a prisoner singing
in the dark,

and there without question
is the sound
of manacles cracking open.