Dressed nice, they’ll clarify the things that come their way.
In the name of the father or the mother they embody
and become every lamppost, bus stop, mini-mall, stoplight,
park bench, bodega, Burger King or light rail schedule edifice.
All they need is their standing tower of bilingual pamphlets
colored with pictures that look like me and you. People
keep passing when they just want to pass along philosophic
proficiency. A problem-solving mechanism dwelling
in the secret place of their pleats and skirts
with the highest promises of the almighty shadow.
For just a few minutes they’ll take you to the places
an almighty self can’t, promising your fortress of body
a refuge and all you’d have to do is listen. Once
I got caught. I imagined myself covered in the feathers
of the city, pigeon and cardinal, not afraid of the night,
nor the bullet of the day. And I asked if destruction was
only found in the caesura of their voices, harpooning from the