a quiet coronation

[serge gurkski]

in the subway tunnels,
the black ventricles
of the metropolitan organism,
there's a haloed saint--
beard crawling with demons
and earwigs and spirits--
a chemotherapeutic particle
in the bloodstream of the city.
above the surface,
rebar, the bones of granite monoliths,
sway with his passing:
reeds shaken in the wind.
on the platform
a panhandler prays pennies
for his tin;
he, who once glutted
on ethereal hors d'oeuvres,
now a god in the gutter
smoking herb.
our saint,
with organic tendrils of living light
blossoming from a cowlick at a point
behind his crown,
kneels on the ground,
glazed with piss,
and anoints his head with chicken grease.
a quiet coronation
which only cherubim and pigeons
alight to witness.

good stuff! Thank you for the read.
cheers
serge