Psalm 151


Dear Lord,

Forgive this young woman,

this friend of Dorothy,

who stumbled in the red plastic heels she bought

as she sauntered down the gold plated avenue

into the heart of a lustrous stranger

with shiny promises and a squeaky clean act

who lubricated with Bacardi 151 and

greased her gears for faster feats.

She was unable to fend off his burnished seduction

after polishing off the shots she was handed and slouching

over the lusty arm that cradled her rib cage.

Please forgive her for her sins,

for not fighting vice,

for not being strong,

for allowing the man to degrade himself.

She led that man into sin.

Dear Lord,

Please send this young woman good counsel

from men who study at good, Christian universities,

seats of great, holy believing,

where men go to become great believers and

believe deep beliefs with no more brains than a scarecrow.

Men worth their straw, in a fine parson’s hat,

educated at Penn State,

or Steubenville,

or Notre Dame,

where fake dead girls get tackled harder than raped dead girls

because they bring shame upon this gold and emerald city

because they lead men to sin.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for granting this young woman the courage

to confess her sin, and hope.  Hope for a second chance

for when she dies, she can decompose, become a plant,

be harvested, bought, eaten, and become

a part of a person who was not raped, receiving from you

her dignity once more.  You, oh holy one, are her

artificial sphincter reconstituting gizmo,

and in her fear, you are there to say

are those all the sins you wish to confess?

nothing more

nothing less

A mutation at the heart of soma,

a restoration at the bosom of psyche,

a sarx unblemished by its own sin.

Dear Lord,

You, the Great and Powerful,

of whom nobody has seen,

Not no body, not no how,

the cloud man, impassible,

the white smoke that rises from

the cynical ashes of burnt out dreams

after all the votes have been counted and tallies taken,

the Marvelous Professor, You, who stoop down

to speak in the vernacular of the peasantry,

You, who laugh in the face of death, sneer at doom, and chuckle at catastrophe,

You, Professor Marvel, never guess, you know!

You have built a city where

saying sorry is easier than

asking permission

blessed be the city where grace is so cheap.


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