Send Them Up

Do you imagine God always on call
With myriad receptors,
Or a universal switchboard
Staffed by patient angels
In soft white gowns?

Prepare for the worst:
God is an old man gone fishing,
A grump with irritable bowel,
Discolored toenails, and stained
Underarms that will make
Your yearnful eyes water.

Go ahead, send them up.
He�ll scrape them into his bucket
And use your prayers as bait.
Beer cans and dirty magazines
Line the bottom of his boat.
He sticks pins in Jesus dolls,
Snacks on eyeballs harvested
From humble believers,
Spies on virgins with binoculars.

Go ahead, send them up.
His call center has been outsourced
To third world angels who live
In rusted tenement clouds.
Your prayers will be ignored
In the order they�re received,
Expedited service for a fee,
Major credit cards allowed.

All the while, the old man
Is rocking in his boat,
Eating pork rinds,
Belching famine and pestilence.

Faith, creed, and color
Are all the same to him.
If they were fish, they�d go back in.
Sink or swim, amen, tough luck
For the brotherhood of man.

July 19, 2005

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Also by William Michaelian

Winter Poems

ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco

Signed copies available

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