Waiting sharp and shiny on the forked end.
To stop thinking to the next good line. The
Darkness of the trek to your car was made
Even blacker by the blinding of the
Field lights through the choke of leaves in the trees.
Take off your God goggles and succumb to
The wispy lip of Mister Five O’clock’s
Geedunk van stalking neighborhood streets in
Search of unsuspecting children mostly
Reclaimed by a belief in a Christian life.
To understand a text. To believe that
You know the world. To understand that a
Cigar is just a cigar except when
It doesn’t jive well with your narrative.
Be it in exchange for an item when
The price doesn’t just round up to the next
Dollar, or just a handful from your front
Pocket for a beggar wearing a foul
Weather jacket on a hot summer day
Who is trying to make change for his next
Cheap pack of cigarettes or a baggie
Of crack rocks. Every human has the strength
To make change in the universe somehow.
But us kids were smarter then to show off
The new, cozy, air-conditioned hall of
The Church of Lefty. Who could handle the
Wafting odor of an unwashed crackhead
In the house of the lord? We sure couldn’t.
I was seeing its fresh Christian thunder,
Eyes that had seen the millennium set
On deep clay. Wearing what weren’t even
Tamed and pulled closed. The hospital gowns. For
Me, they brought two. The pale horse. Six foot four.
Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of grey
Flesh. Tie one on backwards and one on forwards
To haunt the white halls. To determine the
Bodily apocalypse waging. To
Be wheeled from one bright room to another.
To be prodded with cold instruments. To
Be fed through the center of a spinning
Machine. Modern inquisition to force
My confession. My forced resurrection.