Warning! Despite the title The Last Supper, these are not religious poems. These poems embrace at the intersection of the Sacred and the Profane. As all astute readers know, at that intersection lies the forbidden. These poems are forbidden to you if you are easily offended if you read the lines but not between the lines. If you cannot embrace shades of gray, you will not like these poems. The author apologizes in advance for the lack of roses and limericks in these poems. These poems are not for children, little old ladies ...
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Warning! Despite the title The Last Supper, these are not religious poems. These poems embrace at the intersection of the Sacred and the Profane. As all astute readers know, at that intersection lies the forbidden. These poems are forbidden to you if you are easily offended if you read the lines but not between the lines. If you cannot embrace shades of gray, you will not like these poems. The author apologizes in advance for the lack of roses and limericks in these poems. These poems are not for children, little old ladies, or Church Mothers. However, the church is in these poems.You might get a whiff of the 80's in these verses. Ronald Reagan may be dead, but his legacy lives on. Nothing has changed much in corporate America. Greed rules. AIDS steals away our young men and women. The poem's title, The Last Supper, comes the mantra a young man recited as I fed him his last meal: A sip of water please/A little string beans/Wait now, you're rushing me.If you love the Lord or the God in you, you will love these poems--not because they're religious, but because they strive to tell the truth.Charles W. Harvey1987 PEN/Southwest Discovery Prize WinnerExcerpt: PERHAPSPerhaps we're just takingup space in each other's emptywounded, gushing hearts, and bathing in blood so thickour eyes turnlate-night red.Perhaps you'll let me pulldown the straps of your sea blueoveralls and let my fingers crawl all overyour brown mountains and hills.Perhaps the twin bed is just right for us.Perhaps we will not annihilate each other with tongues.I want your lies, your smoke, your children splattering the sheets, my chest and chin.Perhaps I'll let you bury meand live on for twenty yearssoaking your old bonesin my memor
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