“It’s all lust and ashes”, quotes

the filthy eyed prophet

a squawking raven on swept sidewalk

panoramic vision of her purview

a lo mein domain, noodle boxes discarded

chewing old bottle caps

and spouting love songs

the lowly fool cursed

with the wisdom of gods

she tends to dance a jig

around the lunch hour

what she prances for

I do not presume to know

there is a golden bell

she keeps in breast pocket

a broken, anguished sound it makes

or at least I think so

her eyes are of the wolf

they speak of winter and

indomitable spirits

unclean wretch in antiquated suit

pandering with tricks and cards

the can at her feet has but

few dollars and coins

perhaps enough for smoke and warm meal

she scribes ancient secrets

in Sanskrit and glyph

onto the national currencies

passing on old knowings of skald and bard

to those that seek to see

she sometimes plays the trombone

and feeds the poor animals

that haunt the alleys

I have witnessed her have visions

that speak of the other side

she never shares those stories

in a civil war with her hair

silver shocked through the black

indecipherable pictographs

tattooed up and down

her arms, corded steel

that carry a strength

given only to the mad and broken-hearted

madness part of the part

she pretends to play

so that none may question

who she is or where she comes from

but I know

and I believe she knows

there is an uneasy truce

between us

I hear the voice everyday

though she rarely speaks

her words etched into the inside of my skull

echoing like a swarm of African bees

she smells of tobacco and old papers

I believe she is here to teach me

to lesson us

but we lessen, and forget how to listen

It’s all lust and ashes

she’s the litany

I still carry with me

18 thoughts on “Prophet

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