I've never seen exactly who it is

that you paperclip your knees,

meld your hands together, and pray to

but I think I know what he looks like:

I bet your God is about 5'10".

I bet he weighs 185. Probably

stands the way a high school

diploma does when it's next to a GED.

I bet your God has a millet. I bet

he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves,

a fanny pack, and says word like

"getrdun." I bet your God watches FOX news,

Dog the Bounty Hunter, voted for Donald Trump,

and loves Bill O'Reilly. I bet your God

is a politician from Arizona. I bet his

high school served racism in the cafeteria

and offered "hate speech" as a second language.

I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat

and racial slurs tattooed to his tongue

just to make intolerance more comfortable

in his mouth. I bet he has a burning cross

as a middle finger and Jim Crow

underneath his nails. Your God

is a Confederate flag's wet dream.

Conceived on a day when the sky

decided to slice her own wrist.

I bet your God has a drinking problem.

I bet he sees the bottom of the shot glass

more often than his own children.

I bet he pours whiskey on his dreams

until they taste like good ideas,

probably cusses like an electric guitar

with Tourette's plugged into the ocean.

I bet he yells like a schizophrenic nail hun,

damaging all things that care about him

enough to get close. I bet there are angels

in Heaven with black eyes and broken halos

who claimed they fell down the stairs.

I bet your God would've made Eve

without a mouth and taught her how

to spread her legs like a magazine

that she will never be pretty enough

to be in. Sooner or later you will realize

that you are praying to your own shadow,

that you are standing in front of mirrors

and are worshipping your own reflection.

Your God stile my God's identity.

So next time you bend your knees,

next time you bow your head

I want you to tell your God

that my God is looking for him.