The Holy Youth of Sao Paulo

skinny children move quickly outliving the shadow of their slim suicides. running and skipping they celebrate lent with the soles of their feet creating samba daylight vigil's on every corner. now the ash of gods presence floats on the water through the navel of the city. the drain pipe priest charge a nickle for a bottle, over time some called it coca cola. but still a dark skinned gutter punk jesus races through the broken streets with all the other holy youth. they wear pink and orange flip flop sandles annoited to speckled shades of crimson by a bleeding grapefruit that gets kicked through folded cardboard box goals. the sun is setting now in the streets of sao paulo and in the parks on every bench the old wait in their tabernacles of wrinkled days. They sit quietly to watch the pigeons turn to gray grail. With a coronation of lanterns on their heads in the late evening they speak parables in such strange tounges.