Pardon the cardiac;
arrest me
for speaking too blatantly.
The words I choose to speak
both crimson red and leak.
Can you smell my truth?
I smell ink.
Here's a small gesture,
through the rata-tat
steel pipes and ting-ting
raindrops
bleeding from the sky on my tin can ceiling-
spread my ashes on a piece of toast,
butter n' honey
Feed it to the lonely,
poor, beaten and homely.
Feed me to the junkie.
Fill their hearts and eyes with tears.
Let them repent for oh, these pitiful, wasted years.
Let them rejoice! My embalming fluid blood
preserve their life.
Feed them my Eucharist, my body,
my light.