if god were to exist,
i believe there would be a Spinozan necessity.

the universe;
synchronized, sprung
some disheveled form of free will
thrown together like onion skins and
entrails in a sack
a horrible, violent rush of water
all caught about, arms flailing
and fingers crunching

god, among us
a punishing current
unabashed and left static
ad infinitum

i only hope
a horrific silence would take over as the denouement

perhaps this is what my father meant to tell me
the day i lay across the black, creased, scratched,
broken leather couch
my feet on one end and my head at the other
my body limp as a dead dog
the fever sweat heavy, a
swamp of cold and heat and urea
unaware of my own existence
only remembering, in glimpses of placid chaos
and jagged ultra
my father’s closed eyes
brow furrowed and sprung
lips quivering like my mother’s so many other
nights before
speaking something unhuman,
some numen that took over
a glossolalia; ancient tongues poured from
the smallest partition of mortal flesh
the words folding and slithering throughout the room
like some strange beasts
and piquant flora

i think in that time i came the closest to god
i had ever been

in that time my father was nascent
born many moons ago
many waxing, pulling moons
but born again
only truly blossoming into Himself
when tongues bellowed, rushed out of his gut
and rode up his throat
the belly of some great prophet never to be
heard from again
even many moons from now
many waxing, pulling moons

those words, like letters unknown scattered
about and sucked into the walls

sometimes, when i sleep on that same couch
during that strange twilight between
consciousness and the expansive plains of dream
if i listen closely
ear pressed to some odd silence
i can hear my father still,
and i relish in being
the only being
to have heard these words more than once
and to still not understand
to still be ungerminated
waiting for some strange crescent glow

maybe god decided to make him twice.

i hope god sprung two births for me as well.

Marcelo Quesada