Goddess Hunting on the Net

Goddess Hunting on the Net by Paul H. Prochnow There was an ominous authoritative pall   hanging lead like in foggy bog   hanging like a lung full of mungers as if I, the prince, would somehow expiate, ameliorate some poor fucks   precious well meaning little mind, and peep at     the frail and lovely little ditties;  with the net I am a looking glass, peephole person too! so the goddess of the land was found on the net   and as the prince I had to shit in her nest and eat the nestlings from afar as the goddess   is authoritatively barred from hailing her prince. the goddess saw a fire and other people saw it too   she saw the fire was red, she ain't blind     and found the fire hot, must of got close she had a astral baby, she thinks, or a clitty epiphany   more likely, and many other people seen the fire too,     the oddest thing that happened was that it rained --all one can conclude is it was a prophecy mirrored by the ozmanian conflagration the goddess feels that extreme cold puts unusual hues in her lakefront watercolor mornscape,   her sun was a florida grapefruit, the trees made tree     music and the birchbark was tinted by her grapefruit sun the psychogenics blurred her frozen orbs to hallucinate sherpa flags waving from the branches         The wildgoose goes just like Frankie Lane sings, yeah, just about everyfuckingplace I guess, but iconistic     in her cosmongeny no doubt; goddess, yes. housebound breeder tomato, yes.         Life is getting a tad more Apollonic for the   goddess as she ages and the activities of life seem much more complex and magical, she now hears great concertos coming from cars where youngsters   neck, swap spit, and find naughty bits to explore.     she can taste and smell, it is good the LSD is wearing off now after all these years but yet   the fallen leaves are an inappropriate color     and still much too loud, she notes, she wishes they would shut up.     the godess can be a real humanitarian, sort of like a President Billy C. feeling others pain.         That must be good omen for us mortals, even such princes   as I, all of us mere mortal flesh dancing in the all encompassing eye of the goddess.       She saw one such serflette born with old hands, probably from playing violin in a past life,   and pity floweth forth from the goddess-head, amen. The serflette had the most audacious problems,   her mom and dad serfs were appalled, distraught....     and as the goddess intervened it made a great deal of       sense for the serflette to start walking on her hands. May your life and poems be filed with such awesome awe and gleeful glee, because, by- fuckin-god, you morons are her prodigies. Written April 2nd, 2002 © on Apr 02 2002 08:26 AM PST   0 • 9