It can't be easy

being the patron saint of sinners

but ****** all if you don't make it seem that way.



You look so good in blue,

as you serenely sway along the streets

touching the eyes of blind

just like Christ's own messenger.



The dirt and dust that coats us all

never seems to stick to you,

the disease that cripples us

you cast off with a twist of your

white hand.



You're silhouetted form

against the wall,

cast from an acrid fire

gave me some kind of hope.

A soft whisper of a word

that you produced from nowhere

made me feel like I could be you.



Wars seem to die between

your lips

and so could I.



You might as well have wings.



But where are you tonight?

A half completed hotel comes down around

a hollow bastion of silence and peace.



How rare silence is; how preciously finite

like all the good things.

Like wine and cherries and orchids

and any combination of the three.



My father and I used to climb mountains

to experience a silent so absolute that

you had to hold your breath

because it was making too much noise.

A silence so complete that

you can hear the trees grow.



But the hotel is crashing down

around my ears so clamorous and horrid

leaving me alone freezing in the cold

rubble and ruins surrounding me listening

to the cars pass by on the interstate.



How quickly stained glass breaks.

Crossroads are a particular

kind of place where mythology

and actuality combine,

mix and dance with your shadow.



Limitlessness has a name

and social security number

in your restlessness

and your ambitiousness.



I've performed in cafes and on street corners,

In bookshops and depots,

woods and public restrooms

with the junkyard profits

desperately clutching to my clothes,

refusing my money

but begging for my love.



But now I am at the crossroads.



The smoke from my soul

comes in, forces me to turn around,

turn around turn around,

and see the faces,

so many different faces,

all those who have

loved me,

mocked me,

befriended me,

mentored,

hated,

changed

maimed

spit in my eye

called me what they thought I was.



So many faces.

So many eyes full of dreams and ire.



How many would I come to know again?



Who would become fortune tellers

blues-men

teachers

cops preachers

mathematicians builders destroyers

soldiers of fortune

businessmen liars or junkyard prophets?



Who will become like smoke in the fog,

slightly hazy lost-boys

off to never-never land,

never to be seen or heard from

except for the cries that whisper

the time?



So many faces.



What will I be to them?

A companion

friend

liar

hater

lover

brother

sideshow

an I knew him when

a face that looks at their back

at the crossroads,

a wisp of smoke?



I turn again,

turn turn,

a cymbal shot

pushes me forward,

left and right,

but I can never go back behind.



Johanna whispers

Even salvation must get old.



I know she must be correct,

at least as far as I can turn my head.



The right is barred,

the left is guarded by the beasts,

the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby,

I straighten my jacket,

pack my self into a slip bag,

and blow away with the smoke.