Duende Ode (Edited)

Ode to Michael

“Give me a game!” I proclaimed,
as I drunk dialed the three Michaels,
Moore, Vick, and Kors,
to help triangulate the source of global warming.
Vick was reticent,
but gave in when Kors
knitted him a salmon-colored orgasm
out of trundle and twine.

“The journey will be perilous!” I exclaimed,
“Limited cell phone service,
no alcohol, and no brothels along the way.
Are you still in?”

The three Michaels nodded their heads hungrily.

“Will there be flowers?” asked Moore.
“Will there be dinosaurs?” asked Vick.
Kors smirked hysterically,
“Flowers and dinosaurs
have been extinct for months!
But we must be mindful of minotaurs.”

“Oh yes, the murderous, marauding, minotaurs,”
echoed everyone.

“It is settled, then,” I said,
as my spearmint-beamed eyes pierced through
the clouds of grasshopper ash,

“We will meet at midnight at McDonalds
to plan our perversions.
We will stop at Wal-Mart and shop
to singe off the shards of our sins.
And, my brothers, we will find that melting middle.
And when we mark and manifest,
we will meld marshmallows together
and giggle about Jesus and heaven and giraffes.”

“To victory!” exclaimed Michael.
“To ending global warming!” exclaimed Michael.
“Let us pray,” said Michael,
his brow rounded with reverence.

The Michaels and myself formed a circle, held hands,
and hung our heads over hypotheticals and hope:
“Let us say a prayer for the late Michael,
the Michael who had all the answers.”
Flowers became extinct after his passing,
and people forgot how to dance.
The population of minotaurs exploded exponentially,
as only he knew how to slay them
and the secret died with him.
“Dear Michael, wherever you are,
hear us, and help us to heal the world
and make it a better place.”