to: The Decembrists, bricklayers, Arthur Meursault, Leonard Cohen & the Somerset West public library

    I
at the foot of my altar
a candle burns at both ends

running out of gas, a dying star
shines through the skylight
magnified
sparking a flame.
the veil catches ablaze
burning in half
top to bottom
revealing a million
scattered puzzle pieces
lying below a gold spray-painted calf.

in the pile of ash, that was my altar
lies a pool of melted wax.

    II
standing behind a pulpit
facing a mirror
at the base of table mountain.  
my sermon floats in a bubble
towards the summit
before bursting into a blind
hollow orbit.

    III
staring down the barrel of a dead rubber
the deck is loaded
and the dealer has my number.

absurdity is my only ally
while the chairs are packed
with strangers

my chips are all blank
while i sit chained to the board
in titanium shackles.

    IV
carrying the burden of empty bags
flying a kite dressed as a dusty white flag

this name is a weight
too heavy for my slight shoulders

my body is torn
hanging on all three crosses

denied thrice
of a seat on the throne
the roll of my dice
will eventually take me home

hineni
hineni
i'm ready my lord.