Algebra of the Sky


I am bored with all this emptiness, God said,
I will create myself, words, utter I am
bored with all this emptiness, but first
I must create emptiness, then myself,
consciousness, boredom, finally
language. Or did I engineer myself
before emptiness? God wondered. Weird
that I conceived wondering, too.
Alright, time to carve the matchstick,
braid the fuse, ignite the extravagant
boom, this will be the beginning
of everything, although I was
here before that, busy stacking black
and soundless blocks of nothingness,
holding back my yawning. But who
built me? God thought. Shoot, I forgot:
me. Without a blueprint, I made my hands
to make my hands make myself. It is so
confusing, it being language, language being
the lanyard knots to my thinking. I was here
before there was a here, it’s that simple,
it’s that mystifying, a clear explanation
hides inside the oblong shadow
my zero casts. God pondered. I am done
trying to solve it, the whittled matchstick is
waiting, the ponytailed fuse is waiting,
here come the pyrotechnics, let those
long away from this moment
tip their minds to a tightlipped sky
and figure it out.