I’m probably sitting in dried loogies
across from a church at night –
It has an old palm tree guarding the doors,
and the stairs are empty
I saw myself sitting on them, briefly in a flash,
not writing this, so I have seen the past
Inside me – an inside that science cannot ever see –
something is scalding and wringing
like a soiled burning cleaning-rag
I remain silent, in shadow, in parking lot light,
white, leaving all lost or degenerate
with nowhere to hide–or in the same way,
nowhere to be alone alone
We often overlap, be it at night or black day
How often we are passed by the youthful, spry & gay
I still don the costume – home & hindered,
identity splintered –
the bless`d fool’s façade,
being the refuse I had so long refused to be,
long not knowing what me was me
With ailing eyes I scale the church
to where no bell not silent lies,
just a particle of the quivering deep crimson night,
down here with the roaches and the piss and the flies
My eyes drift off, but it matters not,
for there ive set myself to rest