[God is a set]

God is a set

of certain values.

He is the values

and they are him.


We are one

and the same.

He, if he punctures

my face with leathery


hands. Me, when I slam

through the glass

library door, and puncture

my mouth with a cigarette.


I become the library but it

is not me. I am not yet defined.

Define is a proposition. I swear

I couldn’t read until the tenth


grade, and not because

I was locked away,

but because of my occupation

pouring concrete or playing


basketball. The set must

follow a rule. The

predicate and the subject

must be in an order.


The Bad Man is just

God with an empty set.

He is not God, and God

is not him, but God is


that set of values that will

get lost the next time you

misplace it or forget

to pass it on to your children.


The Bad Man becomes

the hereditary trait and mixes

with God’s set. Soon, there

is no set or no God, but only


empty. They become each

other, and the doors, and my

father. The bad man is God

if his set were empty. I become


my body, the communion,

you, take it as the sacrifice.

I am the bad man, and he

is I, but we are not one.


He, if he takes

his leathery hands

and slams them through

me, even though I know


they are my hands too,

and even if I shout, father,

I am me. God cannot

shout this, he is one


with his set. So his

shout is the same

as his words and his father

and his hands are not


leathery, because he is perfect,

or at the very least

he is constrained to be.

Unlike me, he is


the boundary and his

very own set, and he

doesn’t need to shout,

Father, why have you


got hands that are so

leathery when you haven’t

once left the office, other

than to drive home too


fast and drink a little

too much and touch your

hand to my face, too fast

for affection, with your hands that you


haven’t ever washed or knelt

down to take communion

the right way, like me,

without belief in God,


Father, I am you

and me but I am only

me, the bad man. He is God. 

He is an empty set.