I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
We are all writing God's poem.
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
I want to kiss God on His nose and watch Him sneeze and so do you. Not out of disrespect. Out of pique. Out of a man-to-man thing.
To be without God is to be a snake / who wants to swallow an elephant.
Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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