Friday, October 28, 2011

Dear Angel,

I don't know how to speak
without electrocuting myself.
Like God, I don't know
how to begin or end.
The television woke me this morning
shouting "PIGS GET FED,
It was only sports commentary
like all our lives
our regret. I was a terrible
boy scout, a terrible mousetrap,
a terrible Revenge of the Mummy,
a terrible rock,
a terrible satellite.
So Much Lose. Here
is The Cold of Poetry
and Here There Be Fever
and with either
you get tons of phlegm
like the horniest flowers
when no one's looking.
Even if you have only the Cold
of Poetry and not the Fever,
still you might crave booksex.
Booksex is addictive.
Do you hate your Employer,
and do you even know
who that is? I don't.
God clearly rained down
a punishment of fire
on Sodom and Dr. Laura.
Do not list Sex
as your employer.
Oops, this don't erase.
It's sneaky to try to be good
the Puritans understood.
So you should torture
yourself for wanting it.
Torture yourself good.
Angels are God's dogs,
they can help us taste the rainbow
or shake fire and plague
from their grey Armani wings.
If the adjectives ever ended
would we at last become sane?
I doubt it. AT LAST
is probably a ghost ship
like the Dutchman we see
pulling into the harbor
empty. You'll find
no harbor, only the bosom
of the psychotic seabirds
who own the harbor. But
psychotic bosoms are real bosoms
and you might need the warmth.
What did you want me to learn
in your House before I fled forever
to sleep where seabirds
screen and scream the ocean?
Oh yes.

Kindness is a martial art.

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