It’s Not Like Nikola Tesla Knew All of Those People Were Going to Die

Everyone wants to write about god but no one wants to imagine their god as the finger trembling inside a grenade pin’s ring or the red vine of blood coughed into a child’s palm while they cradle the head of a dying parent. Few things are more dangerous than a man who is capable of dividing himself into several men, each of them with a unique river of desire on their tongues. It is also magic to pray for a daughter and find yourself with an endless march of boys who all have the smile of a motherfucker who wronged you and never apologized. No one wants to imagine their god as the knuckles cracking on a father watching their son picking a good switch from the tree and certainly no one wants to imagine their god as the tree. Enough with the foolishness of hope and how it bruises the walls of a home where two people sit, stubbornly in love with the idea of staying. If one must pray, I imagine it is most worthwhile to pray towards endings. The only difference between sunsets and funerals is whether or not a town mistakes the howls of a crying woman for madness.