of John Lennon's,
let's imagine (for a second)
there is a heaven—
one hundred and seven
billion individuals:
blissful, well fed,
well met, and well protected;
no crying at parties or
sexual tension;
no one undervalued or
starved for affection;
none struggling
to thrust spears
tipped with pressure-
heated viewpoints
against the pallid weak flesh
of ignorance, nonchalance,
hate, and discrimination;
no misanthropes striving
against existential
doubt or cultural oppression
to create meaning
for themselves or inflame
their generation. Go ahead,
imagine it. I wonder
if you can
without feeling upon
your lips and your hands
the cold kisses
and limp handshakes—
without seeing and hearing
tasting and smelling
all the beige paintings
and slow boneless dances,
the bland food and sad flat
champagne in glasses,
all the tuneless
songs they'd be playing,
and the pages and pages
of flowerless, moonless,
childless, useless
poems about amity
you would get.
