God sucks at plowing

sent out a thought
and left it suspended in air
idle in a cold moment
chilled to the bone, yet
you can still find warmth in the marrow
maybe that's considered evidence
of a soul existing
in the middle of winter, who knows
when there is no proof of God
existing within the mounds
of plowed snow, seems more logical
to find the holy ghost calling the shots
from beneath the humble dirty slush
caked between the rubber ridges
of your shoe's sole, no place
for an egotistical hand to thunder slap
the soft cheek of a woman
who has stepped out of her place
below the ball sack of man
preaching bible verses like universal laws
of a God not found in the dirty slush
nor the mounds of plowed snow, but
of a God found in the veins
of a fully erected but unimpressive cock
compensated by a Rolex watch
telling us that art is a waste of time
and time, after all, is money
and money buys hand fed grapes
from the empty husks bearing
beautiful tits which compensate
for their dry shriveled hearts
having trouble pumping blood
slowly coagulating, thirsty in veins
unable to perform the task
because the mind has given up
and believed in the wrong God
during that cold moment when winter
couldn't provide evidence of the warmth
found in marrow, and couldn't conjure
that golden question mark suspended
in air as a shining star thought
shining brightly through the cold darkness
over the God I have found
in the dirty slush, and not in the plowed
mounds of snow