We live in God’s imagination,
he whispers on the street to strangers.
He needs to take his medication,
But the angel of his unborn prescription
squats with a sword of flame at the pharmacy door.
We live in God’s imagination.
He sleeps in the black hole of a subway station,
unexamined, unanalyzed, not able to remember
He needs to take his medication
So the voices of his inner congregation
will sing in tune again. If he could be sure
We live in God’s imagination
Seamlessly as neurons in a ganglion
he might stop twitching. And how much more
He needs to take his medication
Depends on the contrail that tortures the event horizon
incising above the square its insidious either/or.
We live in God’s imagination.
He needs to take His medication.