Poetry: Psalm 151

By: Jack Michaelson 
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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