Really enjoyed this one, my friend. To keep myself focused, I'm going to reproduce the stanzas and comment a bit on each. Then I'll offer some holistic feedback. Want to say, though, the sort of keyphrase for this piece that intuitively comes to mind is "The Blueprint." Yes, capitalized, and yes, the.

The title "Theodicy" imbues your compact lines with a sense of sorcery, though, knowing you, it's just as likely to be intended to be humorous. In any case, I quite enjoy it.

Blue lines stretch
coursing blood
through firmament
pencil sketches,

Perhaps the equating of literary creation with creation on an astronomical scale? The line lengths draw the eyes to consider what the parallels may be between lines 1 & 3 and 2 & 4. The former seem more ethereal, the latter, more coarse. "Firmament" catches the eye here, a nice use of the term.

guided hands
thumbing through
the tabbed void
opening spines
and blotting,

Seems to be a continuation of the literary/cosmic metaphor. "Tabbed void" is an excellent image. It brings to mind the concept of the akashic records. I do snag a bit on "blotting" here, which may be intentional, and an interesting way to paint with words this action. It stands out a lot being given its own line.

two dimensions
clasped, unclasping
three, reveal
the thump thump
thump of pumps
pulling blood to
the core, gravity

Here we are to my favorite stanza in this piece, because of the tangible sense of motion it creates. The first two conveyed a sense of slow, deliberate motion, which seems to accelerate here. The use of repetition and onomatopoeia is welcome after the densely packed lines of the beginning.

pulleys trailing
belts across the hides
of canvas unraveling
the fabric of
nothing.

Here I picture thick book covers, maybe of leather, being imprinted with some intricate geometrical insignias. Though of course this is me reading myself into the piece. I credit the openness of the stanza for allowing that sort of imagination to take place, especially the abstract "unraveling the fabric of nothing."

Cog teething cog
spilling stars across
a blank, gaping maw
of known unknowns,

This is cosmic music! And paradox, to boot. The images of stars and cogs, the full emptiness of space, lovely.

dragons skirting burnt edges
of the parchment of you,
the sphere of the world.

There's an air of practicality lent to this fantastical image by your style of writing. Also here we have the first full stop of the piece, so we linger to briefly consider what "the sphere of the world['s]" importance is in this context of this poem. Is "the parchment of us" being equated with the world, that we are quintessentially made of the same fabric as the world? Our edges perhaps burnt by the same all-consuming flames of imperfection and decay that afflict all forms destined to dissolution.

Deus ex machina:
enough of our machines,
like everything earthly
that comes from heaven,

I am composed of fire.

Here is the punchline I was waiting for, though what's implied is subtle. Do I sense the expression of frustration in the face of the far-fetched theories of men where regards the supernatural? (Deus ex machina/enough of our machines) Because after all, it is simple. We are "composed of fire." Fire being a tangible manifestation of light/sound, generating tangible heat of a physical variety.

I am left wondering at the feelings behind the piece, there is a sense of detachment here, though the equating of writing with cosmic phenomenon conveys a sort of veiled, deep passion: unmanifest but on the verge of popping into being at any instant. It is almost as if "The Blueprint" of the universe/reality is being consulted, studied, readied, in order to spawn a holographic miniature of it in "Theodicy," one which would finally lay to rest the wearisome dilemma of good vs. evil in the world.