A Poor Man's Epistolary
Dear Lord,
These are the generations of the misfits, your children. Whitman begat Kerouac, and Kerouac begat Ginsberg, and Ginsberg begat Larson, and Larson begat Kahlo, and Kahlo begat Warhol, and Warhol begat Shakespeare, and Shakespeare begat Strindberg, and Strindberg begat Poe. Forgive us, Father, for we have sinned. We love ourselves more than we love our neighbors. Wedo all this through sex, and love, and cigarettes who give us strength. Even though we walkthrough the darkest alley, we fear no evil, for we are forever alone; your compassion and your charity, they neglect us. We are the angels that fell the hardest. We are the angels that fell the farthest. For the word of art is alive and thriving. Sharper than any double-barreled gun, it fires even to dividing flesh and bone, pain and numbness; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the sublime. We are lost. But we have found ourselves in prose, and poetry, and paintbrushes. We sin no less than your holier-than-thou disciples. Yet they still punish us to ghettos and grottos, to barstools and bastions. Give us this day our daily crumb. Forgive us, Lord, for we are broken.
Heed Our Prayer,
- Your Most Humble Sheep
YOU ARE READING
Parchment and Perfume
PoetryThis draft represents the inner workings of my mind, among other things. All of my poems and prose will be cataloged here and available for feedback. Pieces will constantly be added or removed to fit the guidelines for any poetry submissions I have...
