Heaven sends manna in the famine season.
Boys discover themselves under willows and
in bathrooms, in the mirror. Something
deep within them pushes toward the edges of
the universe, pen in hand, the voice
"Young man, you have been misled. The
manna you consume is not from Heaven, but
from Stockton, California, and the poems
that flow from your lubricated palms are
not poems, but fuel for the flaming gas bag
that is poetry.com."
It's easy guys, just put a few words
together, sound like you know something:
Fire burns stomach inside out night swoops.
Raging terror lurks in shadows, I no longer
feel myself alone with the aching fever to
share with the world on nights when all
that is lost is right.
The blind can smile at darkness, can't you?
Sent as a joke to poetry.com