When you start listening to God you listen first to silence.

You hear first what God is not and you hold it out--display it, rest it on the tip of your tongue, show yourself you are not alone. You lay on a rug that once covered a living sheep’s body and, touching the skin of its skin and your own skin, you listen to yourself listen.

You write something that seems like a poem but, because revelations are God, it is God that you write. Careful to avoid the image. Now old enough to have mostly outgrown similes, you write God's object directly.

And when you write God’s mind, God’s body, God’s transubstantiation, you also sit alone-- Apartment complex. Chlorine water drinking cats. Fuschia-pink flowers. Art supplies. Water machine. Swimming pool. Paid air-conditioning included. Your bike is stolen. You’ve come back and you’ll leave again. You are never more alien than God.

I read your lists as incantations. The boundaries between things undone, and remade, endless intervention. Pushing into what you wrote, I try listing things. I can’t get inside it, it’s too blazing and wonderful. But listing is pleasurable, what’s more it’s ontology. An image of God. Or a see-through glass to see through. A glass to press to a door and listen and a door to press into a water glass. Reflections here are like long lines of interconnected fuses--a lure toward what is BDSM, where the body opens where God is God and God opens where the body is. Tautology has the pleasure of reality where openness closes over everything.

God’s deadline

God’s online shopping bill

God’s unanswered phone calls

God makes colors and babies and God is a part of all pure sex. God doesn’t look away from the computer when my mom and I accidentally watch a woman in a stars-and-stripes thong give a blowjob in our living room on http://www.whitehouse.com. I’m twelve and God is also twelve. God is also forty-five and so is my mom.

God’s heating pads

God’s pharmacist

God’s iodized salt

God’s urinary incontinence pad

God’s grandparents’ luggage

God’s afterschool snack

God is there the night God stops talking to me. I sing myself to sleep, hymns in the navy-dark room. A closed door is a bright boundary.

God’s tiny ceramic salt shakers

God’s ant farm

God’s dead cat

God’s fundraiser chocolate bars

God’s fat little dog

God’s old fleece blankets

And it’s God who looks at me and tells me when my skirt is too short for church, and it’s God who sews my Halloween costume, and God who curls and then occasionally burns my hair. It's God who learned to knit.

God’s basement closet

God’s open bowl of chips

God’s shrimp dip

God’s Christmas ham

God’s artichoke

God’s conscription notice

God’s damaged bookend

God’s evacuation plan

It’s God who wants new countertops and it's God who tells my sister and I to never lie, and God who always finds out. It's God who sets out the bright blue mint toothpaste, and the tiny red fluoride pills. It’s God who opens the bathroom door when you are inside, hiding. It's God who makes all the cookie dough and God with a storage room full of banana chips and grape juice. It’s God who reads Gone with the Wind again. It's God who mails packages of candy you don’t like.

God’s graduate school application

God’s yoga injury

God’s institutional bias

Antibiotics belong to god

Friends belong to god

Illness belongs to god

God writes your breathing out when you are most intense in the city--he empties you into the present moment of a school, or a church, or a store.

God’s magic

God’s eco-dyed silk

God’s theme park beach

God’s pregnancy

God writes my memories into churches where someone stops at the erotic peak of my body and softly lets go, into churches with the same gold-clung poster, a white man’s body, and a dangling lavender garment, neatly trimmed brown beard. God writes it so there is repetition--that someone can see it, but also so that someone else cannot.

God’s beach towel

God’s anticipation-poem

God’s motion detector

How everything makes itself

My mother believed in reverence and fasted once a month, still, she kept a nearly opaque old ziplock with gum and caramels and mints. Each time she gave me one she would remind me that they were hers and I needed permission. Some things only God can.

God’s biopolitics

God’s bento box

God’s sense of smell

Candy and reverence and all the marbled paper in the hymn books belongs also to God. We are told again about the early saints, and how they crushed up all of their fine china and suspended it in the whitewash on the outside of the first temple--first of its kind, but all buildings and all bodies are also houses waiting expectantly for God--who can easily enter in.

God’s peppermint oil

God’s vegan gummy

God’s favorite marker

God’s outfit

God’s goat head patch

How God’s body belongs to God

And God was the husband--yours and mine, who made dinner, and cut vegetables evenly and fed the cat. God’s husband was glowing and also not a husband. For me God’s husband was a person rushing up the courthouse steps pulling his jeans up from behind, having not slept.

God’s grocery store

God’s favorite flavor

God’s pacifist manifesto

God’s girlfriend was drinking wine on the porch and waiting to lightly hold hands, and brush leaves off of legs covered in tights. God’s girlfriend was sentimental and nostalgic and disgusting and boring.

God’s quiet zone

God’s student

God’s electrolyte beverage aisle

It’s God who is screaming through the bathroom door. It’s God’s Lyft driver in the middle of the night looking for a coffee shop with you sitting in the back. It’s God’s wholesale bookseller with a basement filled with books. It’s God who touches your hair. It’s God who is already inside your mouth. It's God who is never going to come out. It’s God who loves the light moving and masturbates to the sound of water boiling.

God’s canned peas

God’s cornfield

God’s eyelashes

She tells me about buying raspberries at the store, “To me, all desire is sacred, no matter how commercial.” I agree silently through the phone.

God’s horse parasite

God’s history channel program

God’s chicken dinner

She belongs to God. When I touched her she bled. She told me she was a virgin; I knew she wasn’t and I nodded carefully through the shock. What is more sudden than the spirit. God caught in the moment. Something that happens all at once.

God’s emergency

God’s conversion chart

God’s copay

There are people that talk about the spirit all the time, pouring it out like hot milk over their heads when they sit blocked together, congregation. There is a placid movement between classes--flat time in the basement halls, white cold, or yellow. It never occurred to me to leave. Spruce bushes, amber and citrus, a dried smell and wide enough margins to hide behind with cement walls and a chain-link fence sprained and stretched with planar evergreens.

God’s recovery pillow

God’s prenatal gummy vitamins

God’s car trunk with escape hatch

God’s boyfriend searched for 3 hours on the street for someone’s grandmother's earring, and he found it, but God's boyfriend is mad. God’s boyfriend doesn’t like to waste his time and he doesn’t want to talk. God’s boyfriend believes in traps and doesn’t want to trip one.

God’s planned obsolescence

God’s repetition

God’s singularity

God’s evening light backyard

God’s loving memory

God’s distribution

God’s shedding grasses

God’s body-pain is trying to teach something. A group contemplation of bones in the back scraping, a shared inquiry into tender herniated lumps that make stomach wholeness stretch into screaming, slipping, testing. The twisted sinewed stretching of small elastics plinking rhythmically as bowels struggling to open rush and necks struggling to straighten snap with leaden dullness deep into each side of God’s head.

What is a priori is what humans learn through God’s body. Everything outside of our experience is inside of God’s. God’s body-picture is an image that holds itself up internally--a slump of hopeful aching and a tiredness that climbs stairs and wipes down surfaces and says, “you won’t touch the end of that yet.”

God’s limpid bile

God’s varicose veins

God’s heart attack sweat

God’s colorblind doctor

God’s happy gynecologist

God’s group home

I heard something about God when a boy refused to pee on your body, like language was God's under your tattoo, but the rest of the body escaped. And I think, you can’t mediate for everyone, prophets never do.

God’s bruised nipple

God’s broken hairbrush

God’s pair of clean underwear

After several years of shuttered sex, strange and clacking, I developed pain. God’s vagina. Both deep and surface, pain rubbed in, pined needled, exquisite and fainting. Broken with the oil of words, this is where I realize God is merciful because pain is an open-ended sensation.

God’s fifth drink

God’s horoscope

God’s open tab

God’s gold necklace

God’s father’s hands and fists

God’s birthday restaurant discount

God’s oedema

God’s eyesight

God’s decorative horse spur

God is crying in frustration. God sits on the floor. God’s focus is compromised. God comes home to God’s dog’s accidents on the floor. God walks to the store for unflavored Pedialyte. God can’t read God’s books. God doesn’t make God’s art. God cannot write poetry or prose, because God is too tired to think. God does God’s dishes. God does God’s laundry. God does God’s job. God gives God’s dog cookies. God feeds God’s cat. God takes God’s supplement and prescription pills. God follows God’s meal schedule. God rakes God’s backyard. God takes out God’s garbage. God does not help God’s neighbors.

God’s biological family’s cancers

God’s phrases

God’s writing-bath

God’s flatness

God’s dichroic mirror

God’s visual impairment

Everything is to scale for God. God is the same for themselves--a one to one, that holds also all of the numbers in between--folded infinities. God, like a sieve falling through a second sieve. To be the same as oneself and how to also disrupt it.

God’s grabbed wrist

God’s introduction to your body

God’s clarity has an order

God’s project

God’s panel show

God’s time for being alone

Where can we look for thinghood but to God? Each sentence, like each thing, is a separate object pearling on a long string--but how strange to separate any thing out. Watching soap bubbles close and glimmering briefly it shuts and pops at once. Language closes--but here, God reopens-- commandments are conditional statements, apophantic logic which only God can judge.

God's sunburn

God's oil lamp

God's snowshoes

God's cabbage salad

God's hearing aid

God's wet wipe

God’s blood blister

God’s time clock

God’s fish stew

God’s pink consent form

God’s stiffened biology

God’s circuit breaker

God signing with their hands

God wearing a summer scarf

God fruit-nippled and dew-laden

God’s mountain veil

God’s opened pomegranate

God forested

God salt-crusted

God glob-painted

God thick-haired

God baby toed and expectant

God’s dead chickens

God’s alive bacteria

God’s long table

Walking home under the half shade of leaves, their surfaces made and remade in the light, a low-cost movement of wind, translucent plushy filament-green light-bitten, blooming, clear, broken open, but shredded first into what is a texture to cause you to experience the air. This was stained glass and ocean-curtains when leaving school as a child, now as an adult leaving it again, I think how God(!) am I experiencing this again, something I could never remember.

God’s inner and outer beauty

God doesn’t need favorites where they live

stripped of power

God’s revelations don’t have to come to them. They don’t burst forth. They don’t have to be recontained. They don’t need to move at all. God is the same for God’s self. God contains the transcendental. God contains all change. God moves and God holds still. God does not need to be found. God is what is lost. God is what is gone. God is what is never complete. God is the tipping point.

God’s event horizon

God’s silent boyfriend

God’s gulf war

God’s bee colony

God’s frostbite

After God spoke, what was empty was full of emptiness and equally with words. We lay in the cemetery listening. Listening to a statue of Christ's hands and to a relief on a headstone of Christ in the Mediterranean--a tree dripping with dates. He did not look like you or like Christ or like God or like anyone. This was God’s headstone with a picture of God’s son whose skin was white and he was painted silent.

God’s country of origin

God’s second passport

Gods’ tenderness

God’s prophet

God’s book signing

God’s image as seen from a train

God’s asking about trauma

God’s Youtube lecture on idealism as metaphysics

God’s questions over the phone

God’s baleen neck muscles

God’s rabbit foot tongue

God’s closed esophagus

And God’s asking forgiveness