Hat brim low on his brow,
his evaporated frown speaks impatience.
Would you look at the time.
"Whiskey for me."
I say thank you for the third time,
apologize for the fifth.
Go ahead, he says. Start.
Sigh.
"You're so bright, the pagan priestess calls you 'sun'."
.....She revolves - arms stretched, skirt swirling.
.....She hopes his light will land on her
.....so she might shine, too.
He bows his head. Dude.
First shot down. "One more,"
followed by thank you number four.
"You heal."
He denies.
denies.
denies.
Worn soles welcome followers down dusty paths.
This time he smiles.
.....In his footsteps they tread.
A high road/high tide joke
sneaks through his tight, poised mouth.
I take my next sip.
Burn my tongue on a pun.
What else do they say?
"They are reborn in the water you walk on."
He presses against a grin.
Not really.
"The point is that they think so."
I tell him his friends became saints
(of course they are; I was a tremendous pain in the ass.)
and wars have been fought over his words.
(did I not just say I was a pain in the ass?)
Did you know they pray to my mother?
"But your words..."
.....he whispers prophetic riddles into bent ears
.....bends perception.
They are only words.
.....And leaves a wake of wailing weeping swooning women.
Smirk.
"You don't mind the women."
Some.
One last shot and sorry number six.
"How do you like being a messiah?"
I got into this line of work for the words.
But I stayed for the martyrdom.
I nod.
and you know Lazarus wasn't really all that sick.
his evaporated frown speaks impatience.
Would you look at the time.
"Whiskey for me."
I say thank you for the third time,
apologize for the fifth.
Go ahead, he says. Start.
Sigh.
"You're so bright, the pagan priestess calls you 'sun'."
.....She revolves - arms stretched, skirt swirling.
.....She hopes his light will land on her
.....so she might shine, too.
He bows his head. Dude.
First shot down. "One more,"
followed by thank you number four.
"You heal."
He denies.
denies.
denies.
Worn soles welcome followers down dusty paths.
This time he smiles.
.....In his footsteps they tread.
A high road/high tide joke
sneaks through his tight, poised mouth.
I take my next sip.
Burn my tongue on a pun.
What else do they say?
"They are reborn in the water you walk on."
He presses against a grin.
Not really.
"The point is that they think so."
I tell him his friends became saints
(of course they are; I was a tremendous pain in the ass.)
and wars have been fought over his words.
(did I not just say I was a pain in the ass?)
Did you know they pray to my mother?
"But your words..."
.....he whispers prophetic riddles into bent ears
.....bends perception.
They are only words.
.....And leaves a wake of wailing weeping swooning women.
Smirk.
"You don't mind the women."
Some.
One last shot and sorry number six.
"How do you like being a messiah?"
I got into this line of work for the words.
But I stayed for the martyrdom.
I nod.
and you know Lazarus wasn't really all that sick.
Last edited: