Hey…Yahweh…You Missed a Spot.

Cima_da_Conegliano,_God_the_Father

In the throes of 4am influence,
A friend gripped the neck of his beer bottle,
Pointed at me with a free standing index. Adopting a slurred dialect,
Proposed:
“God made us in His image. So, WE’RE ALL GODS!”

But in Exodus
The answer of God became a question.

“I am-What I am.”

I was not certain
That in a passionate declaration
Of
* Drunk words being sober thoughts *
That
If we’re all Gods
God must be mediocre.

I regard in humanity-
Time used as a documentation
To establish value on the flesh.

When 7.00 cannot purchase sustenance,
Then how can the soul contain endless worth?
For being what we are
And everything is us,
Let’s remember

“I am-What I am.”

In truth.
I want love.
Not an explanation.

In the throes of 4am influence,
The silence of my response
Was met with snoring
And a gurgling of spit and fermented oats.

I stood in the darkness,
Wondering why suicide is a sin.
Why people imprison others
By using interchangeable standards
Of living conditions.

I shook my comatose friend
Until his eye-lids fluttered,
Our gazes met in a narrowed framing
Of dilated pupils.

I asked:
“Can we be Gods tomorrow?
Tonight I want to be a human?”

“Fuck off.” He said. “You can be whatever
Just let me sleep.”

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