This Poem was Submitted By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-05-08 21:04:21 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Hey, You

Hey! You, up there in Your big blue chair just left of the moon, would You make the Big Dipper pour out all its black sky into my cup, onto my sin blanket to wash the sulfur from my sour soul? Can You rinse my tattered radically avant pajamas in a little liquid lava and fling brimstone from that other all-knowing place I face just to show me that You hear and care? Then, your Ultimate-ness, would You brush back my matted hair with Your comet tails so I can watch the nymphs’ dance routines on that horizontal stage where reality meets Your immense construction-paper infinity, and love hides in those tiny, compact black holes? That cold cupful of shadows You just poured an hour, or eon, ago is spilling into my mind filling dream spaces with golden icicles; and those seven bitch-sisters of Yours just spit meteorites at me, their irreversibly mad lover, and their crucified tongues wailed wicked words as they walked briskly away on their crow’s toes, flailing their phosphorus hands as if they really don’t care. So I ask - do they? do You?

Copyright © May 2004 Wayne R. Leach

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