Wailed Out

Take a trip from there to here And count all the dead The dead as you pass. Consider that locusts also have blood As two of them lie mauled on the road: A mass of legs and wings They must have been mating. Note that a flattened frog Looks the same as a toad Underneath a car’s wheel. Counting the death You might begin to understand Why the poet-pornographer howled Why he could not write But had to scrawl Why it makes you sick To be reminded of all the filthy dead That lie between here and there. I have read children’s letters to God: dear mr. GOd (They write) What would Nietzsche or Sartre have to say, Consider: Do agnostics go to hell? And animals? Where is your Creator’s lovingkindness, Answer: Do not millions suffer? And I, also? and plees bles mom an dad and Granny and granpa to. yours sinsearly, etc. (When I was young There was always a reason And that was fine) Dear God! Let me know reason And understand Or not When people die.

 

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