Isn’t this all silly A little embarrassing (All because of Constantine’s Very Christian mommy) An old white guy Is the object of our adoration Our graven image In mosaic fresco T-shirt Who supposedly bestows Comfort and joy A doddering fogy well past Wise sits on the throne Why not Isis Horus or Mithras Dionysos was fun fun fun For that matter how about If you insist upon a single entity A golden calf A tire a shoe a billiard ball An ass or an elbow (It is enough knowing The difference between No need for idolatry) A penis a vagina Yoni Almighty A mouth or anus effigy (Truly it’s not about the orifice) As the only thing that makes Any sense is love-making How about a Disney princess Or rotating pop stars For the Virgin Mary The color blue! A Yves Klein painting On every sacred altar Andromeda the galaxy Next door might work Then again please consider How about love?
We crave we desire Hanker at the very least We gorge our orifices Bottomless gullets Yum yum yum Implacable gourmands We insist upon A nameless hoard to Manufacture our accumulations Plush toys weed eaters flip flops New and improved silicone Battery-operated vibrator dildos In stock and on sale now! Ships bump at our shores Brimming with our gluttony Trains trucks men women Push it all pull it all Hurriedly here and there Convenient cardboard pleasure Buffets on our doorsteps We sigh we moan Sated for fleeting moments And then used up we Launch it all out our asses Shove it all to the curb It is the American Way Wouldn’t you agree? Eventually all that’s left Are hills of empty plastic Eventually all the dildos Fill all the landfills for A thousand years. Eventually all the forests Are shaved from our skin – So much stubble on Legs crotches chins All that’s left is highly Confidential memoranda Regarding merchandise avarice Receipts for our demise
A Precious Transience
As soon as the stars Were born their deaths Were inevitable The stars are dimming In their nativities And we are informed Physicists surmise There are no more We live out our days Indifferently act as if There are plenty of stars To go around Our vision narrows To what’s within the frame Of our bedroom window We busy ourselves We obsess we squabble Over petty details We deny and we deny The heavens fade Our sun like us Increasingly fragile dies A little more each day And a lifetime is Required to comprehend Our stark predicament In the meantime How are we not At every moment A precious transience Reflecting upon the depths Of space the spinning Of distant galaxies? How are we not Spending our last Hours making love Or playing with children Or holding one another In our demise?
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawingstitled Drawing Nirvana.