Wasted on one too many miracles

The sight of the world on fire from afar.
Napalm and new improved networks of lasers for the lazy man's way to wage war on the unanswerd prayers
of the puny under pressure amongst the ruins; without the backup bullies and without an endless supply of bullets pulling for them, about par
worse than wishful thinking , history as predictable as data dead questionnaires.

The ecology howls, you can hear it like echos in the Grand Canyon
And Marvin Gaye on the radio
Waves of emotion washing over the universe, kids spelling it out with crayons.
Not yet in touch with the buzz of Edgar Alan Poe.


Pleasures of plunder wait like lizards, venomous with spendor
Philosophies, that can be bought hot off the word processors , help to get rid of that rotten feeling that something's going wrong .
In between the terror there's the tender,
an indulgence that's departmentalized and handled with tongs.

In the wrong hands and at the wrong time, the thinking goes,
It'd be like God wasted on one too many miracles, strung out in the after hours, forgetting to keep on his toes.