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God's Postcards *

Dear God,
Sometimes these thoughts of yours
come to me like postcards.
On one side a pretty picture;
the all inclusive landscape
of some lush tropical locale,
or some heavenly portraits
of people in extreme and utter happiness.
They're slightly worn and faded
from their original Technicolor glory
revealing the severe age of their print date.
It's the thought that counts, I know,
but I must say your postcards are too few and far between.
Your messages too brief:
little tidbits of information crammed together
gasping for breath in search of more space.
Inked with a dried out pen in tiny chicken scratches:
illegible and illogical in their meaning.
God, for once I'd like to hear your voice in person.
These tiny impersonal greetings
only serve to remind me that you are there,
and I am here,
living at the edge of a fluorescent universe.
Maybe, just maybe, you could fix it,
so that every so often
you could speak in the tongue of others:
in the next door neighbor,
the clerk behind the counter,
my closest dearest friends,
or even in my mother and father,
if that were possible.
I'd like that a lot.
P.S.
It would be nice if you could maybe send me
a return address with your postcards.
That way I'd know where to send you this message.

 

*Note: this poem is not reflective of my own philosophy, but the
words of a character within my play: "At the Edge of the Fluorescent Universe"