at 4:30 in the morning
when only the papermen
insomniacs, long distance commutters,
graveyard shift workers, and crackheads are awake
this is the time poetic thoughts converge and awake
like a hollow hand possessed with an impish inspiration
sawtoothed index files collate brain matter
towards that clear incandescent thought
or just another bright idea
and 10,000 years from now will that idea warm the insight
of a random passerby on the cosmic highway of intuition
or will the words fade away beyond the opaque shadows
of lost memories
whimsicals, thoughts and prayers
in units of floating elements
drifting through the ocean of consciousness
vacuous, black and eternal
never finding their way ashore
it was a winter's cold
a cold like living out doors
a homeless cold
without the oil burning
that 52 degrees
was 20 degrees above outside
I didn't pray that morning
It was that 20 degrees of seperation between me and the homeless
that sent me to church
church was warm
and when I looked at that fat gospel preacher
I resented the fact that his house was warm
while mine was cold
can you tell a hungry man about Jesus
can you tell a naked man about Jesus
can you tell a homeless man about Jesus
yes you can
but will he hear you as the pangs of hunger
saw knots of shame in his rumbling gut
and will the naked man hear you as the cold
penetrates his bones and chills his joints to icy regions of anxious pain
will the homeless man hear you
as your fat Escalade's $5000 wheels splash water on the edges of his winter encampment
yes they will hear
but can they listen
to your sanctified boast of a hereafter
a hereafter paid for with latent indulgences, tithes, and material vanity
even their ears are frozen brittle
so how will they hear
at 4:30 in the morning
