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Missionary
Epistle
I was just sitting down
When the world blew up
When the gun burped
When the bald guy's head flew off
And you can't usurp the poem
The power of the seemingly
The so-called forget-about-it meaningless
Beauty of beauty thing poem
That dashes the hopes of the dog
men
And lies in wait at supermarket checkout counters
And is broadcast so live it's skin
I was kissing my daughter when my heart
Pounded right out of my body
I was seeing double, the Future was only part
I was no longer panicked
The streets were red
Jazz was the anthem and a big
box
Had enough lunch for the world.
There was no more teaching and "Who Cares"
Was not a put down
Because you didn't have to
care
Things cared for you
And guess what, I'm a bitter
failure
And I feel pain and I'm happy baking
Flour into lives and a nutritious
Momentary collapse is all I ask for
So translate these whistles of
spit
Whipping through the airless void
And bring back Life itself,
You, Missionary of Chaos and Joy
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