hymn to a blue sunday

 
the clouds chew away
at the morning sky
line
 
Arnold Palmer is still
hitting that long drive
on the 9th hole on a
golf course in heaven
 
birds sit on tree branches  
overlooking park benches  
 
silent assassins waiting
to crap on the heads of
the unexpected
 
murder in the streetlights  
damp glow on city streets
 
what were we before
the invention of the word  
fate
 
stars and planets falling  
from the ass of the
universe  
 
hands folded in prayer  
 
snake eyes
 
singing the  
blues
 
blue  
balled
 
blue plate
special  
as
 
we live our
lives
 
we live our  
lies
 
all with a grimace  
of a smile  
 
while the world's
stomach  
turns
 
and dogs become  
lazy
 
as drunks sing,
"show me the
way home."
 
on this hymn to
a blue
Sunday