The sign says “Meals on Jesus” and a man in a suit is waiting,
dark and desolate against the blankness of Skid Row
where no air moves and no light rests.
This heat speaks: “Get a job. Quit drinking.”
And then in the blank desolation of Skid Row,
a prophet on a bicycle lets out a wail, distorted
in such a heat. Get a job, quit drinking,
I think. He stands anointed with garbage,
distorted. The prophet on the bicycle is wailing
“Allah.” The voice lurches drunkenly heavenwards,
scours my heart of its garbage.
“Allahu akbar,” a police raid on my soul.
“Allah,” lurching drunkenly heavenwards
(I have no language for this kind of devotion).
“Allahu akbar” is a police raid on our souls
a call to prayer, a call for there to be prayer, for there to be.
I have no language for any kind of devotion.
Earthbound or ascending, I can hear only
this call to prayer, this call for there to be prayer, this for there to be.
The sign says “Meals on Jesus.” I’m waiting.