August

for the Writer's Cramp

August

I call him the Jesus guy
festooned in suits
of garish colors,
hi-top Converse, and a crown.
He carries a sign
proclaiming the end of times.
I imagine his church
full of exquisite song,
joyful cries to the Lord.
I stopped him at twilight
and asked for prayer
though more earth bound
than Heaven seeking.
His hands burned through
the top of my head as the Pleiades
whirled like confetti in space.
My mind split open
as I asked for forgiveness of the Universe.
He walked off grim and steely,
with no words left.
And I am left
remembering that August night..