Frightened souls out winding wild Seattle streets
Like maddened monks on our way to early Mass,
The unbelieving faithful freezing in fear and beauty.
Softly we tread lest the fury of invisible police
Settle judgement upon our poverty.
Slowly we steal sidelong glances into the grey pain
Of a new day's woes. Furtive and redolent of original
Sin, praying for our own invisibility and the
Forgetfulness of wine. Wine, the Communion of the Damned,
The forty-ounce Sacrament of Cain ... Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa,
Mea Maxima Culpa.
Untouchable opulence envelopes us like mystic miasma
And the iron-knuckle cop is ubiquitous reminder
There is no room for Angel-sinners to drag our rags
Through the halls of Xanadu.
One more day is upon us and curses and prayers
Are garbled, indistinguishable in the ears of a
The tiny niche of earth fate has lent my calloused
Feet seems suddenly to turn into someone else's gold.
My lot is to somehow magically vanish like
The fugitive hopes and hours of melting life .....
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StreetWrites Pacific Northwest Poems
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