i used to sleep upstairs from god.

in a small ohio town
on the second floor
of the home
in which i was conceived, born and raised.

he wore a beard
his first name had 5 letters
his surname had 6
his middle name wasn't "h."
but it might as well have been
for all the hell through which i put him
and all the hell from which he thought he was saving me.

my god was true and livin'
he was blue from livin'
that by-your-collar,
stretch-your-dollar,
clock-punchin',
shift-rotatin',
7 days on-2 days off
existence.

so, he sought heaven in his family
and he created paradise from them.

he woke up each morning next to the only dream he ever wanted to imagine.

he achieved his own fantasies with every point and every rebound
his sons crammed into the box scores of high school basketball games.

he accumulated siblings and parents among the townfolk
who came to love him simply because he was good.

and he tried to pass his version of paradise onto me.

but i'm named for milton,
naturally, i lost it.

not when first phone call from precinct hall asked him to bring bail money for his first born,

or when brew and food mixed to soil his brand new living room carpet,

or even when i gave up on athletics before he was ready to.

no, i lost paradise the day i exceeded god.

it was one of those countless one-on-one battles
when father schools son on how the game is supposed to be played

he let me jump out to an early lead
--as he usually did--
before reigning jump shot after jump shot
on my bald, confident head.

but for the first time,
my eyes looked down at his
and my thighs were stronger than his
and when i pounded the ball against the concrete
backing him further and further into the paint:

god quivered.

spin move.
elevation.
ball.
slams.
through.
hoop.

neither of us had the heart to finish the game;
we both knew the outcome was inevitable
and he knew it wouldn't be confined to that court.

i never celebrated that moment
'cause i never fully believed in it

until years later,
when the old man
stood in my home
--more hair on his shoulders than on his head--
smiling,
as he gazed upon a wall
decorated by evidence of my journeys
and adorned with articulations of the place
i had carved for myself in the history of this world;
he extended his hand toward mine
not to shake it,
but to ask for help walking to his car.