Our Sunday Prayers

You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attendance upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song?

“Old man Yeats knew what was true. If you have no anger at this world, anger at its willful stupidities, its grim indifference, its real sins: its murdering hordes, its smug myths, exploitive habits, its catastrophic wastes, the smile on its hyena hungry face, its jackal tastes, then you belong to it, and you are one of its apes   though animals should not be so disgraced as to be put in any simile with man.”

“Old age ought to know. Death will soon enough come to its rescue. Till the knowing ends, all that was wasted and wronged in youth   through ignorance, haste, competition, bad belief, all that was bored by middle age into one long snooze, has borne its juiceless fruit, and is now known for what it is: nothing has been righted here. Yet if desire can be kept from contamination, if it can be aimed, as one’s fingertip, at the root’s place, if it is not harnessed to the horses of dismal domination, but is allowed to be itself and realize life, then the flutter of an eyelash on a cheek will assume its proper importance; Wall Street may crash and the gods of money smelted back into the sordid earths they came from; yet, unfazed, our heads will rest at least on one another, a fall sun will shine on the sheets, your nipple shall enter my ear like a bee seeking in a bloom a place to sleep; life shall run through us both renewed; we shall feel longing, lust for one another; we shall share rage for the world.”

 William H. Gass

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4 Replies to “Our Sunday Prayers”

  1. the hibiscus are struggling now
    like our love
    the skunk lies squashed
    flattened as our summer dreams

    the sun rises like an egg
    one of those watery ones
    it has no heat
    nay, not now

    incessant rains have washed me clean
    of optimism
    while in her flooded burrow
    the rabbit waits

    clenched bite of ferret
    sends her to the surface
    full fur flying in a blur
    sharp-eyed hawk has its fare

    if we watered them
    fed them nitrates
    they would flourish
    once again

    with fragrant sighs and whispered murmurs
    you give me hope, for the spring
    here shall my vigorous muse
    find grateful repose.

    give me a kiss you stupid cunt
    is what you say

    Adapted from Dr. Maroon – a person to whom I have no connection whatsoever!

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