Sonnet: God Milk?
by John Kendall Hawkins
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Infinitely infantile megalo-
maniac, that's how I would describe God.
Doesn't hear our pleas, our please. Does He know
we're even here? Object permanence? Odd
we should have to tackle Being alone,
in the beginning and the end unnamed,
pre-lingual, then post-lingual, and the cone
of silence in between, by mere words tamed.
From paradigm lost to paradigm gained;
from pools to lakes to rivers -- oceanic
flights of fancy in some autistic, pained
panpsychic consciousness in full panic.
Here she comes -- MaMa! -- and what's this I see?
O, two jugs of liebfraumilch for me!