The homeless poet
stood outside a bar
in the cold
ranting to everyone
who walked past
He waved a stack of papers
that were handed out
to anyone who showed
even the slightest hint of interest
in receiving his occultic wisdom
He said the pamphlets were free
but those with half a heart
would give him a few bucks
or at least enough spare change
to buy a cup of coffee
He was a guru
in his own peculiar way
and his words
were laced with a message
of apocalyptic strangeness –
full of velvet angels
with dark chocolate wings
descending from heaven
to punish the normal
and bring chaos to the meek
He was all mixed up inside
but that was his karmic role to play
and it was perfectly beautiful –
whether he found a bed for the night
or wound up sleeping in the street
it was all going to turn out okay
because the heralded angels
were soon to arrive either way
