Wednesday, March 4, 2009

The Soul Farmer

In the beginning, with only a few acres
of humans to care for, god planted

each soul by hand, but over time,

as his business grew, he got more

and more removed from the day-to-day

of his enterprise. Now he reclines

in a celestial hammock, nibbling meteors

like intergalactic hors d’oeuvres,

star clusters glittering like martini

glasses. His migrant angels oversee

his humanoid crop, plucking us

as we ripen. Ah, the rich taste

of a tormented soul properly marinated

in experience.
The messages pile up

on his prayer machine. Centuries

since he’s repainted the sky.

—Jeffrey McDaniel

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