by Michael Lee Johnson
Street preacher
server of Word,
pamphlet whore, hand out boy,
fanatic of sidewalk vocals,
strummer seeker
between your cracks of notes,
salvation for living,
damnation, prayers dead−
47th from Ashland to California-
promoting his penniless
life, gospel forever,
Kingdom here come,
later this evening−
wearing same hunter
camouflage colors
yellow, gold, sorts of green,
a J. C. Penney outfit outlet,
underwear he wore a week ago
color dyed piss yellow.
Everything is singular.
He is homeless, spiritual
sexual dream, bed mate,
bedbugs.
Jesus, comes out spirit.
At times Danny sorts feelings
like a dangling modifier,
or an alleyway schizophrenic
with his cause.
He sorts feelings in mystifying end points.
Danny darts off behind
and old oak tree, nearest bathroom
to take a leek,
here he images Krishna
blowing wild on a golden
geese flute.
Beneath a spare Stradivarius
tingles his rib cage.
Back into the bungalow
night street Danny has thoughts
of quarters, Salvation Army, silver dimes,
the Beast, gospel songs, local hookers,
green bills, and wino wine.
Vulnerability knits midnight sky,
rejected sew fry early July morning sun.
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