These Few Presidents (WHY?)

at your house the smell of our still living human bodies and oven gas you pray to nothing out loud two first names and an ampersand embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel you're a beautiful and violent work with a skinny neck of a chinese bird in a fading ancient painting and if you're in heaven waiting you made it there fighting the tightest kite string in a bad storm with lightning and now these few presidents frowning in my pocket can persuade no god to let me let you talk, oh these few presidents frowning in my pocket can persuade no god to let me let you off even though i haven't seen you in years yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere i thought i had a peble in my sock i pulled it off and shook out a wasp it stumbled out lost, and without a pause i'm stung as i was, still i stomped it i thought, there is no paved street worth of your perfect scandanavian feet my crooked chinese fingers groped the machinery of your throat and now these few presidents frowning in my pocket can persuade no god to let me let you talk, oh these few presidents drowning in my pocket can persuade no god to let me let you off even though i haven't seen you in years yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere