‘I am looking at God,’ said the squirrel, ‘and at the Profligate Panda.’ The jackdaw and I enquired did the rodent feel well. ‘As well,’ he replied, ‘as the golden-egg goose of Uganda. ‘As well,’ he went on, ‘as the soil-cleansing thistles that dwell on slights they infer from the tales that parishioners tell.’
‘This is serious,’ I said. The jackdaw agreed and surmised that the squirrel had been maddened from being too often surprised by random events till his brain had been seized by the odd erroneous idea that the phenomena of nature disguised personal messages to him from the Panda, or maybe from God.
It is fun and new for me to have an ebook on Amazon I put my first one ever there on July 1. As a paperback it would take time for DREAM STARS to get around. But I hear the ebook has already been downloaded and read in far-apart places: Amsterdam, Colorado, England, Alabama, Ecuador …
Alms-And-Zen are bringing out a line
of Christian robots good at herding crowds.
When you ask these robots, ‘What would Jesus do?’
they divine and answer what you want to hear
and supply out-of-context supporting bits of scripture
to use against any critics you still have.
They are seriously pious looking. They resemble
the obsequious nervously frowning you-know-who
that dances attendance on the Spurious Leader.
They’re not for sale but on a five-year lease
at 70K per month including updates.
Pro tip: get a pair for only 120K.
After doing enough of this and that we die;
the life on Earth that continues is not ours.
Snows alternate with seasons of bright flowers.
The things we thought we’d get to by and by
remain undone, unsaid. Erosion scours
the minds of those who knew or knew about us.
The calm we had contemplated as a dream
becomes for us reality. We sleep.
The stupid Christians exile Jesu Cristo
because he’s strange-named, refugee, and Jewish
or was when he preached love, God’s rule, and peace though
they won’t admit to that. They go all shrewish
at the idea he’d want bigotry to cease. No
chance they’d follow him. His eyes weren’t blueish.
Wise Christians, there are many, hide in shame
at the evils that the dumb do ‘in His name’.
When I send you this perhaps your training as
psychiatrist will make you think I mean
to send it to you. I cry out for help
but not in your direction anymore
than in the chapel. Never, since it closed.
Free association costs too much.
I’m not short of sense but have been trained
to not spend pennies in the marshes of my mind.
The blobs of white against mind’s background black
are fairy lights that foul my reason’s lenses.
Is Reynolds Price convulsing when he writes
of operations and continuing life
when all that Jesus said was, ‘You’re forgiven’?
I never cried in chapel, never went.
The winds tonight address complaining masts
with lines left naked when we took the sails
inside to winter where their salt will dry.
The tear stains in the chapel are not mine.
The sunrise service that Mother drove us to
made Jesus think how burning fossil fuels,
accelerating Armageddon’s date,
meant no one needs repair the chapel roof.
‘How do you know?’ a demon of the wind
inquires of me, ‘Why breathe of this? Why write?’
I thrice deny the chapel ever was.
Jackdaws and magpies crow the crack of dawn.
No couplets come to end up sonnet-wise
and the rains come down from where it’s specially dark.