Mash Note to a Divinity

Are you stalking my non-existence?
I thought you might be!
Isn't it funny when you look up to Heaven
and see red stars, blue stars, "iffy color" stars
twinkle, as if they're trying to remember something?
Heaven has Alzheimer's!
But it's a Christmassy kind of Alzheimer's
so it's okay to visit.
You can just drop off the cookies,
say something nice, and run like hell
before the smell hits you.
All old people and stars in poems
should be treated like
ex sex without the sex.
The Brownings and Keats
are very dead and you can't
write that kind of poem anymore,
not even on Kleenex in a Chinese prison
after you have stopped a tank with just your skinny body.
Remember when I telephoned you that night
and all you heard through the receiver
was me flapping my wings
and screeching in some high branches?
I just want you to know
that I wasn't embarrassed.
One day, I will accidentally
run into the fine other side
of your love. The one where
you fend off crows with golf clubs
as you are falling asleep
and saying your prayers
at the same time. The prayers
that always begin, "I will go
into the meadow where Jorie Graham
(substitute oh, Mark Doty, if you're gay)
lies asleep in deep grasses,
a sort of poetic cartouche,
and I will feed her
from my Edenic, Iowan breast,
and drowsily she will take
of my milk....she will be grateful..."