فاخلع نعليك or Take off your shoes, but you can come as close as you want

Sometimes I can feel so unloved

that I wish I could throw a

rope up to the skies and have some

angel hold it tight

If I had the energy, I would climb

all the way up and ring the bell,

looking down at my grade school

mates, waving to them

while I listen:

subhanallah, walhamdulillah wa la ilaha illallah wallahu akbar

but I’d rather wrap that noose

around my neck and swing like

a pendulum keeping time for a life

I couldn’t care for anymore

It’d be OK, I think to myself

Maybe that angel will drag my body up

and ask God to have mercy on my soul

Sometimes I can feel so alone

that I don’t even have a self

to stand beside

I would say that I’m lost

but there’s nothing left that

I’m looking to find

The needle won’t stop

spinning, spinning on that compass I was given

but I’d rather not throw the useless

piece of shit away. At least I can

remember a time when it wasn’t a piece of shit

and maybe I can find a way to fix it some day

or maybe not

but it fits so nicely in my pocket now

I’d rather just keep it there

When they find my body in the desert,

at least they can look at the compass and say

“He was going places”

So I find myself at the bottom of a well

waiting for a caravan of Ishmaelites to

fish me out and sell me to slavery

“Can I bum a light?”

I ask one of them

“I’ll do you one better,” as he whips out

his pad, filling out a script;

complete with stage directions and surgeon general warnings

“Take this pill 5 times a day

If you don’t see any results, get back to me and we’ll try something else”

Or maybe you can try a chilla, 40 days

fasting in the desert

riding into town on a skinny ass, a broken down Mitsubishi

40 days entombed underground, sleeping

next to the saint who slow danced with God

40 days on Mt. Sinai,

where I realized my bare, ugly feet were the holiest, most sensual part of my body

40 days underneath the Bodhi tree

until I break my fast with a soy-latte and a Protein Bar

But not before Dr. So-and-So signs my discharge papers

And the papers keep coming: 1040’s, transcripts, applications,

novels, poems, travel journals,

flyers, pamphlets, manifestos

I’d rather wipe my ass with all of them,

before I become dumb

There’s no satisfaction in just reading a menu

The world was made for me to taste and for me to love

and I can’t taste the universe if I allow my tongue to grow numb

but I don’t expect to ever feel full

because the universe doesn’t feed me at all

It’s ok

I don’t want to cannibalize my lover, but I want to taste

the sweat off of her skin and the softness of her lips,

and hand in hand have our bare feet make love

to the sacred ground, as we keep listening for God