The God In Whose Image I Was Created by Myron the Street Poet

No sweat
Invisible Man
Better than a peephole
Pee pole
Pee pull

People, did and said the darn’dest things
When they thought He wasn’t there
They laughed at misery and cried for joy
As if Joy needed any help

This dust blew through his emptiness
Like a stick on a diamond

Once every million years or so
He found a hand that fit nicely into His
But damned if
More often than not
The ears would not hear

These facsimiles also blew through
Without a touch

After a few billion years of
Seeing all
But not being seen by
Any,
He found a hole . . .

This was no ordinary hole.
For he was quite used to holes
Into which he could slide —
A perfect fit
A fur-picked pit
A pee pole hole

This hole was His negative
Or maybe He was the Negative and
This hole was His positive
He was never quite sure
Because there was nothing by which to measure Himself
By which I mean that Nothing WAS
His measuring stick

Then came Time
And suddenly
There were
No more holes
None that fit
Any which way
Behold:
“I Am . . .
Without a purpose”

He no longer rested on the 7th day
Because of Nietzsche, that bastard!
Eternity is NOT forever
It’s NOW
And boy He had had His fill of never-ending nows
Now, now, now
Over and over again

For billions of years
He bore the blame:
“I Am . . .
Inferior”
No holes for Him
He didn’t deserve
A hole
That fit

Wholly holeless
Is the Lord of holes
Heaven and Earth are
Too small for His glory

Too big
I Am
That’s it!
“I Am . . .
Superior”
That must be why
They didn’t see Him
They were
Afraid

The primary misconception about
The God in whose image I was created
Is that He is superior
In fact, He
Is neither superior
Nor inferior
I Am that I Am
And it is what it is
God, after all, is
The ultimate Existentialist