Mark of the Beast

When you haven't spoken to somebody
in years, it's like meeting someone new
as God whispers their name
into your ear along with one or two secrets.
You notice, astutely, that as you are gossiping
with the divine, she is as well. Head tilted, smiling.
And she believes in God. And you do not.
But you both believe in things that are easy to believe
like dirty blonde hair, tattoos of stories,
stories of tattoos. I believe
in the twenty dollars I paid for the concert,
the sixteen more for the bus north
upon my hedonistic hajj. On that bus
my friend (suffering from nosebleeds), me unraveling
toliet paper to stuff him up, us
both reading a free booklet on THE MARK OF THE BEAST
blood speckles on my bleached pinkish jeans,
the caged driver pulls us all in
to Portland. A part of town
where the sidewalks are asking for money
and a homeless man with lazy eyes
touched three fingers to my chest when I told him
I didn't have any money.
Not even at the show, already bloodstained, gypsy cursed,
through security and up the stairs, stamped above the wrist: (black,
two kids holding hands). I saw Sydney there
and we danced a little, screamed
right on top the music. Threw her
into the canopy of the crowd
which, of course, tore her to pieces.