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.
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