Cloud Chamber

Lately my complaints against God
go nowhere, which means

he’s listening to every word.
The master of revels and his murder kit.

yield increase

from the fucking throne of goodness.
In a cloud chamber,

God would be cloud.
A little visual frankness

always appreciated—
God like the Fuller Brush man

right there on the torched doorsteps
of Tornado Alley!

the planets do their old soft shoe

(my mother’s white blood cells kicked
ash to her lungs

in 4/4 time),
and the tinfoil stars

placate remotely:
one more fatal outbreak of

faith along the Gaza Strip,
one more

hemorrhagic sunset at the melting poles.
Hello? Hello?

God keeps himself
to himself; that’s how he stays

perfectly composed.
Or is God just the quietest drunk at the cocktail party

we keep throwing
in his name?

Endowed Distinguished Annihilating Visiting Professor of Cultural Production, Emeritus,
famous, once,

for lecturing
ad infinitum, with fly unzipped?

It only matters if I’m still listening.