God split this burg, not in a chariot
but huffing out in a Pinto.
"Why the hell did I ever give you jazz,"
He snorted, "or music at all, the stars are
ignored, and everyone wants to be
an emissary of divine carpentry."
His Holy Omniscience should've seen
the truck, barreling down on the car.
But an explosion later, and voila! no car,
no God, just a grease spot and a holy fabric torn
and singed, singing abracadabra in the highest,
shazam! in the peace o' earth, WHOOMPH!!!
and all is sand again, primal return to Eden
before the tree. That lollygagging fruit,
juicy, yes, poisonous too, trickster God
giggling at the mischief of those pulpy seeds.
Gets a foot stomp going on stage,
backbeat, ground on floured dust,
poofs every time you kick it, trying to find
rhyme without compass,
and five-four time, with a washboard
smoking some zydeco; crank and pump
that dead God's junk, we got a thirteen inch
tire be-bopping (th-wump!) down the street,
while the bass player's stuck
on a tired one-three-five-six flat seven
pattern like Eden's fruit still holds. God is
engulfed, bubbled and soot, a return
to His fall, this core like His tire,
now reclined against an oak, smoking.
Gonna need a new gold idol, and your lapsis
got all the rhyme I need, gotta thump, gotta beat,
got that soft pump, like the key of a flute,
I'll press my thumb to change your tone,
to hear your fruited voice blow my name.
I'll give you a mute for that lovely bell
and when this pas de deux is done, we can dance
a pas de deis, 'cause hell, Sweet, that tree is buried
now under smoking rubber, and I don't know a hurried
right from a frenzied wrong, it's all gray,
except for that golden ray emanating out of your core,
Sweet, except that stream of do right do right don't change
a three-four time scream that is as quiet as a star,
and as loud as the big bang.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All rights reserved
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