You are the god that rules over unicorns, fairies, my literary career, and luck after all. How can I not believe in you?
I have heard so much
about this “dream,”
why do you keep dreaming?
when will you wake up?
Just believe in yourself and you can believe anything, even in God and the free-market capitalism. After all, Jesus died for free-market capitalism.
Please rain down upon me in all of your sparkling majesty and glory, your brief, momentary flashes of the visible light spectrum, your shiny shining like sugar for my eyes. I pray you make everything fabulous…
We spoke in tongues. No one taught us sacrament so we invented our own. We ask thee in the name of thy son to bless and sanctify this spit. This sweat.
Dear God of Thrift Stores. Holy Handmedown Lord of the Secondhand. I come to you impoverished and ironic to sink my fingers into your junkbins and sift through your innards. I come to you to make wholes out of incompletes, newandimprove a brokedownbeatup, to stitch together echoes. I seek you on red tag days when…
I want to tuck myself into clouds. Float over the terrain, fall all over you in thunderbursts, soak your clothes, ruin your hair. I am devastated at the sight of your umbrella. You still jump into every puddle. I want to bake myself into your favorite pastry. Present it to you. Watch you eagerly pick…
I try to feed her my dreams.
Here is a melting blue guitar.
Here is an ocean in the shape of a house.
Here is a train made out of swingsets.
She devours them. Licks the plate clean.
But she wants more.