The Square Root of Nothing

My God is a slam-dancer on a floor with spectral, 
psychedelic lights;
and people; and noises; and bumps --
(He keeps His eyes closed)
My God moves like nobody can;
and breaks, and turns, and lunges 
like some gorgeous blue fluid 
at zero gravity.
If the music had life and a body, 
it would mirror the moves my God makes,
and it does.

My God is an oak tree in the desert, 
alone for 12,000 miles around;
with roots so deep and strong they hold the earth in orbit;
and a trunk so sure and constant to hold up the sky,
that it makes Atlas 
look like Pee Wee Herman
in Ethiopia.
(Still, one time I carved "Curt loves God" 
with my finger into his trunk, and the sky moved.)
His branches are too wide for infinity to imagine,
And I've climbed all over every one.

My God is the random savagery of a storm's eye.
My God is a terrified butterfly,
crushed under the heel of the boot 
of a seventeen year-old axe-murderer
on Good Friday.
My God is tenderness incarnate.
He hugs everybody constantly, and He loves quiche;
but man, he could whip your ass like standing still.
My God's not hip to religion, never has been;
too many laws and doctrines and subdivided
denominations to keep up with.  My God is love.

He makes the cloth for the lilies of the field.
He can do more with a mustard seed 
than Julia Child has ever done with prime rib.
He's the reason strangers smile back.

My God is Your God too (take it or leave it),
and what I know and can tell of him is still only
the square root of nothing.

Jesus Christ is risen,
May the sky forever move.