psalms for silverman

walden freeman

heaven, i am told, is in the clouds
and thus i would not like to die
on a beautiful and clear afternoon
birds whistling and fountains
showering the neighborhood children
elderly fanning themselves so hard
that they suffer from heatstroke
and karma's other illegitimate
sons-in-law smiling and waving back
and the heat blurring the vision
of each delirious prophet
every corner has its magician
and of course, its messiah but
i often think of myself as
a poor man's homeless person
not quite homeless enough
to find myself at home with the others
and not quite as rugged and too clean
and too full of passion
for directions from directors
to sink in, like a glacier
that resembles a tooth
might sink into a ship
that god himself could not destroy
and sink it while the audience weeps
aging housewives in need of heroic husbands
oh, the road's closed; the maps have been burned
i lie in bed next to the most beautiful
surreal images of those skeletal outlines
made in december on the houses
by the marketability of a man
who died poor and
encouraged us to do the same

justam

This one is quite full!