What is hard to believe,
What frightens me so,
Is that on the first day
He made the heavens and the earth from scratch —
He threw paint cans and Crayola crayons
All about a nothingness,
He sewed stars onto the sky and
Ran extension cords around planets —
And on the second day,
The third,
The fourth,
The fifth,
And even on the sixth,
He did flips, made darkness, grew plants,
Raised sea monsters to life, and
Formed woman and her breasts out of nubile, naked man —
But on the seventh day,
He, the weary artist,
Shall kick off His shoes,
Smoke a Camel and down some Jack,
Play poker with the Seraphim and
Sleep a good twelve hours —
Only to wake on the eighth
Pissed off and hungover,
And — like an ex-girlfriend of mine in one of
Her more self-destructive moments —
Take all of His artwork and smash it,
Rip it, tear it into a
New heaven and new earth,
Ask us to be happy that the art we once loved
Now lies in irredeemable pieces —
Is it sacrilege
to wonder
if God needs therapy
or meds?
It was good, He said.
So good, He said.