#921

Skyscrapers give us the finger
from the freeway, their shining mouths
laugh at us as our arms fall off
and we try frantically to pick them up again.

A gargoyle hangs upside down, incognito
on the municipal building
while the Virgin Mother sobs through
the alabaster walls of the nearby cathedral.

You have seriously considered buying
a sandwich board to wear on the corner,
and charge folks to write whatever they like
on its surface, becoming your Bible.

Here's a start:
Stop playing ventriloquist
with your stigmata, magician,
something we can all get behind.

A lone string of Day of the Dead
flags is caught on a lamp post,
wind-lifted, it marks our meeting spot,
where I can read blueprints on your hands.