tom waits in to

graffiti-stained soul on display,
like a vivisected corpse spread out on a table
shades of elliot, infected with tb – or is that ts? –
and showing in black splotches on the x-rays
only to the detriment of those living on a
molecular level: we all look small from space.

tom waits is telling me god is away
but it’s friday night, so i don’t care about the
empty sky; can’t see the clouds through the
roof, forming so high, so high, above us.
wine-stained back seat like one of bukowski’s
notebooks, minus his bitter outlook on life.
oh, look, neighbourhood strife. where
am i anyways?

trinity bellwoods park,
floating like a lark and wondering what it’s like
to be high – nigh on the edge of the sky. how
convenient for me that cn needed a tower
as such: now i can enjoy half chicken
for the price of a whole one, at 1800 feet.
360 degree view isn’t worth forty bucks
a plate, not now or any other of 365.

o, and tom, god’s back.
he sends his regards, through human voices
echoing ominously eternal over the dirt-crusted
frozen waters of an “O” named lake; he wants you to
know you’ve done a good job, but he’ll take it from here.
don’t worry, he says, you won’t drown
when you wake. open your eyes.