at a bus stop
where I find myself, again.
And again I check out
my privilege at the cash register,
counting dimes for carrots and coffee
I'll make last the next week
two weeks till next cheque...
the ritual of healthy and addiction,
the ritual of the contradiction
of the fake middle class...
Cry Me a River I know,
and sing it with me,
the ritual of Pop
and the burning up the dance floor
where we are free, where we let go,
sacred.
I've been talking of sacred spaces
in the places of the profane,
picking apart our sin with indulgence,
counting our cents
with the sense of the wise,
the common,
around the table where we meet
or the holy ground where we lay facing the stars,
awake in the night we've been taught to fear.
I've been thinking on sacred spaces
at a bus stop
where I find myself, again.
Again at the alter of the in-between.
Let's sing the songs of where we puke,
and where we clean up.
Paint the paintings of alarm clocks calling us too soon to rise,
photoshop in the blemishes.
Confessions of pub bathrooms,
the honesty of highs and the lows,
record the thoughts of escape.
Write me the sonnets of boredom
and the haikus of exhaustion
when only a few words left can be whispered.
Sculpt me a statue of her menstrual body
stretching for healing, resting from chaos, resisting.
Present me an Oscar for hiding my anxiety,
and reward him a Grammy for the ring of his laughter despite it all.
Teach our children our checking accounts and credit card statement realities,
question the beliefs of our parents
and listen to the wisdom of their faults
and pray for something to pray for.
Feed me snacks from the dumpster
a communion of feasting on garbage
symbolism of us.
Every single cup of coffee
and whatever the fuck is happening around it...
Every time fuck is used,
sacred.
Read me the parables of today,
sacred.
I've been thinking on sacred spaces
at a bus stop
where I find myself,
again
where I wait,
and wait,
and wait,
to go.
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