SynergyZine 8: PORTRAITS

Lion of Hayes Valley You might catch him strewn about a stairwell A withered bible in one hand A bottomless mug in the other And he might ask you, “Do you have drugs, man?” And you know by now he means pot Which he takes with a gruff thanks And rolls up with a page From Revelations.

A few hits deep, his yellowed fingertips Roll the joint around, and he says, “America’s been giving Mussolini a blowjob for the past two decades, you know that?”

Sometimes I bite, mostly now I don’t.

His paintings adorn my walls, the excess clinging to his denim everything.

I know he isn’t crazy, or at least As crazy as he’d like you to believe.

After a few bouts, my anxious retorts die out and I stand like an awkward pupil before a scarred and lonesome lion, Wishing him both redemption and destruction, Until his speech becomes more imploring, As confessor seeking ablution, and when I change topic To ask of his birthday, he responds without a pause, Saying, “You know the only thing astrology is good for, Mike?”

“Murder, Mike… murder.”