A Proposed Treaty for those who Mistake God for an Oil Slide

do not compare God to a supertanker
enclosures are the last missive of the forgetful
where the vines collapse and drift to partners
permeable rills egress to satisfied treasurers

CEOs preamble to the mind’s top describable frame
nosebleed seats where the rationalizing parishioner stays
Tomberlin’s i don’t know who needs to hear this…
stamples about the Roman edges, too late for too-weak tea

heralding the nose bled stemples washing in the crainte seat
like an ashturn towards a darkened belt stockade prized start
grocery leaves pace Stilts in the socket wedges lonely trace
too fugitive for religion, too reluctant for organized practice

oil slides on the foster children’s hands
the remnant of the family land reserves
are donated to an art museum for toxic paint and plasterwork collapses
minatory statures that balance between God’s clay billowing breasts
and the captured detention of the ministry of humanity’s still inattentive gaze