We are not in constant prayer because we are good.
Can you imagine how far you must feel
from goodness to believe you must
hold your arms in constant supplication?
We are always praying
while the urge to eat is constant;
the temperate air stirs
the belly something awful.
The ache to grow fresh life – a constant hum.
I know what noise longing –
the racket yes yes yes and want want want –
makes within
my long green limbs.
How he must tremble,
for once he has
filled me,
then he must fill me again,
hunger not telling
the difference
between sex and food.
Every day, the book of life is open –
and we must make our case.
We pray,
for we know to survive on such savagery,
such blatant indulgence for the making and the taking of life,
is disdainful; it’s dreadful, is it not?
We pray
to god
who likes our mantis features,
who remembers our agreement,
who judges us not for being what we are.
We pray so we can remember that
we are doing our time,
our part of the
wonderous
sex death dance
while the sun consumes the moon,
the ocean overtakes the land;
we are refining the hunger
for every last level.
Life as Improv 