The Joshua tree was named by Mormons in the 1850s, who thought they saw their prophet pointing to the promised land.
Interstate Scene 7: Headlights and taillights shimmered, their drivers hopped up on coffee and talk radio.
Interstate Scene 2: When she was a little girl, she would watch the darkness in her bedroom.
There’s a waxing crescent moon and I’m reading about God.
There’s an old Roman maxim that fear gave birth to the gods.
My first concept of god came from It’s a Wonderful Life.
When I consider the man I want to become, I often picture myself as someone who prays.
Last night I woke in the middle of the night and wondered if it’s possible to believe in something otherworldly in 2020.
As I listened to a woman talk to the pigeons, I began humming that Jesus’ blood never failed me yet.
Tonight I’m going to play Funkadelic on repeat, dim the lights, make bad coffee, and write some purple prose.
A news anchor said, “We are descending into something that is not the United States of America tonight.” I’m not sure if this is true.
The amount of incense smoke that darkens a temple’s ceiling demonstrates the popularity of that particular god.
I remember watching the darkness in my bedroom when I was small, hypnotized by grey-pink flecks while I waited for sleep.
“Everything’s a mystery and I’m just another small part of it,” said a woman at a gas station in Barstow.
Strange how something you’ve heard a thousand times can suddenly knock you over.
It seems like a tragedy to go through life not knowing the names of the lights overhead.
And so much space there’s nothing to think about except something resembling god.
Now they’re saying the virus spreads by talking and breathing. We can kill each other just by being a person.
I hear the undoing of a lock and her voice calling behind me. “Thank you, darling. Pray for me.”
There was a time when I would count how many words I said each day. At night I logged the number into a notebook. Sixteen. Twenty-three.
