Intelligent Design

Shiraishi called upon the great sky cock,

wanted an explanation, wondered, why

the echo of form without the wisdom,

why the bent wit without the timing.

Wondered, as I have, how a man, bare

upon the bed may rise as if in praise

but fail to be grateful for the gift at hand.

O dick of questionable devise.

O schlong of longing, as present

but ultimately unknowable as your

maker, I would worship at the fount

if I had more faith, if I knew your

weeping eye was on me alone.