some days I wake up like God put too much gravity in my knees
and now I’m falling prostrate
and on my face is written the name of a god that I created
a god that can’t know my name
this god is a million empty bottles
and a pile of burnt grass
and a collection of brash masks
and a feeble past
and lonely ash
that will one day become my body
I’m killing myself softly
and slowly
and intimately
my feet are dancing vicariously around the idol called me
and I’ve forgotten which way is up
I climbed down from a tree
and ended up in the sky
that was the last time I trusted my own intuition
or my own sense of direction
I asked God to tie balloons around my eyes
so my face would always tilt upward
and so that every god that dust created
would fade away
and fall apart
and die in someone else’s arms

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