Angel of Death

I saw the angel of death
bending in the sad alleyways
with the lost winos sitting like stones
beside overturned cans
and my heart sang
for sorrow.

I heard the alleys singing songs
with words I could not understand
but which my heart held close
and moved on down
and saw yet again
tattered angels on corners
baring their lives with signs
proclaiming no christ
would ever come for them
and I heard the gates of hell swing open
for all of us.
I entered
and saw yet again
naked cherubim smoking crack
and selling pristine asses
for rocks to smoke in glass
and I heard the whiners
lifting up mock voices
to their heavens no one else could reach
blaming all but themselves
as the angel of death
laughed softly.

This I saw
not once
but many times
in the drinking gangs of san francisco
where saintly winos with stained pants
wheedled change
from those barely better off than themselves
and the cars with chrome glided by
with nary a whimper.

And I lay myself down to sleep
in albuquerque
and honolulu
and in the deserts of vegas
and the rainforest of the tropics
and still it was all within me
holding out hope
for a buck seventy-seven
with screw-top wine
and cheap ladies
who did it all
without guilt,
it finally being,
too expensive.

dickens
February 1, 2000