{in a note addressed to heaven c/o travis bickle} john dorsey

{in a note addressed to heaven c/o travis bickle}
  john dorsey

god gives his state
of the union stolen
from the still warm
lips of gerald ford
angels thumb wrestle for
the right to help
answer the fan mail
of james brown even
the devil wants in
on the act having
sent away for his
phd in neo soul
for
                       dummies

ghosts draw treasure maps
of the dead sea
for clamoring tourists after
a spirited game of
got your nose hiding
their souls at the
bottom of a bottomless
crackerjack
                       box

god acts as referee
asking the devil to
place some sun tan
lotion on his
                       back

and as some lonely
vegan contemplates suicide in
a basement apartment in
elizabeth new jersey god
mutters why does it
always seem to be
new jersey? speaking in
strange tongues taking offense
at the thought of
poetry as a dead
art form refusing to take
credit for jewel's "night
without armor" or responsibilty for
the stalwart musings of
robert pinsky or the
love poems of the ira
corso dropped the last
bomb that was really
worth mentioning he scribbles
this caged bird went
out for fair trade
coffee onto a soiled
postcard humming pink floyd
and seems less than
content to be known
as the creator of
sexual tension civil unrest
and the union steward
of both the living
and the ever so
grateful dead negotiating the benefits
of searching for the invisible
meaning of civil wars
and unholy pop mantras
when behind door number
3 the shadow of
true love may be
waiting
                       still