Dear god of ripe avocados
You don’t have a place in any church.
Jesus didn’t sit on my car dashboard for a week,
Just for me to miss the two hours
in which he didn’t concern himself with my sins.
And dear god of ripe avocados
What good is a shrine,
if I still get the fleeting moments of perfection
Of utter mellifluity
And undeniable beauty
Such as you possess
But as a religion proceeds
I’ve yet to reap the seeds of your unearthly functions
From the simplicity of believing in you
Of believing in perfection
And success
Because just as I find my ripe avocado
Time taxes me
And it’s soul is tainted
And I refuse to ingest more tainted souls
Because just as I find my ripe avocado
It falls for someone else
Or it slips itself off the countertop
And bruises like sleepless nights
Or a champion angel.
So I beg of you, god of ripe avocados.
Don’t turn me into guacamole.