12,724. THE SADDEST EASTER EVER

THE SADDEST EASTER EVER

It moves, this stupid feast, dependent

upon phases of the moon. Celestial

time these Christian huffers never

usually think of. Flying segments

of Heaven's time, somehow. The

story never changes, but the dates

all fly around, and I never knew 

what for. To prove what mind is 

that? Dead bodies set to resurrect?

Skin and flesh no matter; it's the

burned ones make me wonder.

-

What rocks have you turned up

under? How'd it go and where've

you been? Tell me your story; did

you lose? Or win? A Moveable

Feast, as Hemingway had it. The

Easter ham and the tribal scam.

-

This one's a little bit different.

Dead sky at night, sailors take

fright? Nothing's running perfectly

anymore, nothing's ever right.

We're all saddled with these new

freezer-truck rituals, a caravan of

Death, for sure, where deceased

bodies stay, waiting for deliverance

only thy can say. No way. This is

all too rotten-sad. Ameliorate me

from this reckoning. Find me

another way to sing.

-

I want to be out of here too before

daybreak comes. My heart's no 

longer in it and all the words I 

hear and the actions I see just

are just limits. There is no human

form divine, Mr. Blake, I disagree,

Our pencil-tip has broken, and

no one can draw us anymore.

This is the saddest Easter ever.