Its true what you heard
Iíve been sleeping with God again
and no choice in the matter,
shackled as I am
Iíve been running the crowds,
riding in subways, the darkís starvation,
slogging up tunnels
that narrow to lampposts
to end in a cigarette ember.
I wore out the rain.
I put my tongue to a fretwork of tracks,
held out for one substance that goes for the jugular.
I was taut as a nascent carnation
when I ran into God.
He came down where I was burning for water,
the hole in His raincoat
more than I could bear
And when I hanker
for air, God is the windsmith;
when I crave smoke,
His word is a fistful of smoke.
(It was the fist first that opened and spoke.)
Being of dark, I cross over.
Finally I identify the white spot on the negative:
itís a blinder, Godís lucid acre.
I pack it into my luminous suitcase
because I am
the little junkie of life.
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