Fuck Up

Make a delicious mistake.
Fuck up once in awhile.
After all, I invented peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
by throwing and shattering bright jars when I was six.
Yes I did.
I invented the Frisbee when I flung a plateful of broccoli
my mom was forcing me to eat out the window.
Yes I did.
I invented S'mores
when an intolerably fascist camp counselor
told me I could only have a single dessert:
so I smushed three into one.
What did You invent by stumbling and dropping things,
by your glorious lack of impulse control?
Go ahead, tell me everything.
Or tell an exquisite lie, so outrageous it might be true.
"I invented the way light shatters in the prism of a raindrop
twenty billion times to create the first rainbow."
I believe you, Friend.
Now listen to me: Whoever God is,
She embraces the whole hot mess.
She lavishes extraneous graces on us,
and a host of Second Chances,
by permitting impeccable blunders like
the uncertain location of an electron,
the mutation in a molecule of cytosine
that created your original gorilla,
the chain of non-causation that led
to this look on your face,
the way blackness engenders stars
in the chaos of a hole at the center of the galaxy,
the all-pervading fragrance of your first love.
So if you were never sentenced
to the time-out chair in kindergarten
or sent to the principle's office in grade school,
if you never cut class to explore
the wilderness in your soul
or skipped church to attend the carnival
in your body,
if you never got tear-gassed in the street
when you were in college,
never got fired from a job,
never spent a single night in jail,
or drank the sky like whiskey
from a morning glory’s cup,
dear one, you might not actually
be alive.