Where did I ask to be a rake and rambling saint?
God knows, whiskey's mostly water
Where are you from? she said with Coptic eyes. (This should be an easy question.)
From nowhere, (my confession): I'm the man from the west with the voice of the forgiven. I've traveled coast-to-coast seven times in three itinerant years. I slept beneath the overhang between the gas staion and that dive of a bar outside Custer's trailer-park town. My parents were neo-Mennonite gypsies and my last home was in Migration, Ohio.
Let me tell you, I'm the priest who laughed at the saints, banished to the wandering desert to mumble, knowing starkly that there are no dharma bums but only winos. Would that we said ascetic where he said junkie. Would that we were ascetics where we were junkies. Would that we junkies said "Ascetic what? And with thy spirit."
And tomorrow, tomorrow, my confession buys a cup of coffee and Saint Christopher's medal.