Given up
on old bearded man
in cloud-dimpled sky
gilded palace
for only goody-two-shoes
Even New-Age-Heaven
right here, right now
is hard to trust
Hell—much easier
to believe in
Is dry flaky skin
a foreshadowing of my
dust to dust finale?
But what of friend’s rapt smile
That erupts into wild laughter—
a big-bang of merriment?
What of my black-hole-self
where time stops then
spins into bulging
planet of joy with
warm brush of furry body
wild tongue on my cheek
What can I name
this proton-happiness-desire
I carry with breathless pain
battering fear,
only to explode into
into melodious moments
of deep knowing
that I am but dancing matter
inside a starlit cosmic ballroom?
Stephen, can I call this God?