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   m e d i t a t i o n s    i n    a    s w i n e    y a r d

--- Y U S E F   K O M U N Y A K A A

A god isn't worth the salt
In our bread if we can't
Stamp our feet & shake balled fist
At eaters of the brightest insects

On their first day here. Sometimes we must tug him out Into the hog's bloody mud. His beauty is our blue

Derision, like a child banging Her ragdoll against the floor, Calling for Daddy. A god isn't worth A drop of water in the hell of his good

Imagination, if we can't curse Sunsets & threaten to forsake him In his storehouse of belladonna, Tiger hornets, & snakebites.

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