And this is the sound of god touching
The sky of your mind with his fists, cracking
“Who are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going?”
The synthesizer of your soul, detuned
Oscillating, faster, rapid back and forth till the tears
Questions every man is asked not only by himself
In the fabric wrapped gray and still around your head
Shrouded in a mystery of tobacco leaves and desiccated fish
There is a place the thunder will not touch
Beside your bed in the drawer where you keep
Your dull vibrator and bright pink dildo
But also by the Department of Homeland Security
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