Of Theologians and Farmers Alike

My God is the heart of the universe.
My God radiates gravity like it was light.
It started to hold the whole lot of us together
as soon as It figured out how to let us go.

We are held in mighty arms, like infants,
by a God that can not stoop to know us.

We are related.
But we are not of a kind. You see.
We do not belong in the house. Not yet.

We are like a supernatural child’s pet.
Arguing against Its parents
for our existence
since the very beginning.

We are God’s garden.
Its favorite pet project.
We enter the house at dinner time.

And are kept
in a kennel
in the backyard.

See.
Daddy didn’t want to get a dog.

My God
is a mom
who got one
anyway.

On me. My. Mine.

What am I doing with my life, calling it mine.
Other men’s names stitched inside my clothing.
Other cities on my lunch beer. Long list of strangers
in my phone. Mine. Maybe. But really not mine alone.
Sharing as a way of life. As ethos.
Let us use sharing as the mortar between bricks and see how well it sticks.
Community. Built of what? Out of unity? Out of punity? Of you and me?
Didn’t read that on the receipt. And I know the price.
But the cost is lost. On me. My. Mine.
I can dig as deep down as I like, what will I find,
a mine for a mind is a noble thing to displace.
Dirt. Rock. Endeavor and effort.
All misplaced and wasted.

If I can not own it, then it must be truth.
And within truth, I am included.
Though I have no name, mine or otherwise,
stitched inside my self.

My Maker could be the pure embodiment of understanding.
Doesn’t make It any better at branding.