According to the Angel

Some of us hang out in honky-tonks, others on the streets of
heaven. Some uppity smart-ass angels managed to get
themselves knocked downstairs. It proved to be quite a drop.

Normal angels fall more or less at their own speed. Don’t let the
wings fool you. Coming to visit you, to twitter in your dreams, is
more a controlled descent than flying, sort of like skydiving.

Sometimes angel tango nuts exit our pearly-gated community to
see how many of us can dance on the head of a pinhead politician.
The seeds we plant in the ears of virgins ripen in their bellies.

Because we’re boneless, there’s nothing of us to really grab hold
of, or to bury. Because we’re timeless, we can’t be truly beautiful.
Beauty, after all, only comes home when it’s leaving forever.

Soon we’ll be obsolete. Doctors peel the dream from the dreamer
now, and decide what it means. Rockets bring the fire of the stars
closer. You can tweet the deity whenever you desire, without us.
Joe Smith