Thursday, July 20, 2006


A poem from Street Sense - written by vendor David Harris

It's a sorry excuse for religion,
I know,
we light the crucifix of gasoline
and climb into the flames

we charge admission to our immolation

We use to think we were dangerous
with frightening ideas,
huffing the glory of our ageless wisdom.

At twenty-three and twenty-four
you're the withered hag,
I, the wizened geezer-
teens on inline skates
laugh at our daring
to think we're cool

The sixteen-year-old suicidal poet
was in vogue one year
I played my role with great panache-
you were stunning as my muse
decked-out in gothic threads;
but our moment in the sun
flickered like a butane spark
and now, we live lives
of therapy
and bills.

It's a sorry excuse for religion
but on our Sunday mornings
we trudge to our church of melancholy
on our knees among our towers
of "modern rock" CD's
I, the toothless soothsayer,
you, the skeletal crone,
we relive the thirty seconds
of meaning in our lives

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