When we sustain the natural-we are God.
When we eradicate the natural-we are human.
Why does sin make us human
And perfection makes us God?
Can’t we be perfect in our failures?
I found company with a store clerk.
A moment of interaction.
A touching of back dropped
Bone white paper, stitched with black letters,
Numbers identified purchase,
Ownership. In the web of my fingerprints,
Trapped like the rotting limbs of stale insects,
Black ink. Black ink that marked existence,
Identity. I handed the receipt back
Along with instructions:
“Throw it away. I don’t need it.”
Along with my fingerprint.
In the trash,
Things I never learned about myself-
Things that made me human-
Inside a receptacle.
Where a Snickers wrapper
Took the place of a bed sheet:
Though the eye-holes never winked-
A hollow black perfected
The phantom of mortality.