The homeless poet

stood outside the bar

in the cold

talking to anyone

who would listen.

 

He held a stack of papers

in his hands

that he gave away

to anyone who showed

the slightest interest.

 

He said they were free,

but anyone with half a heart

would give him a buck or two,

or at least some coins,

just enough for a cup of coffee.

 

He was a guru

in his own peculiar way,

and his words

were laced with a type

of apocalyptic strangeness –

full of velvet angels

with dark chocolate wings

receding down from heaven

to punish the normal

and bring chaos to the meek.

 

He was all mixed up inside,

but that was his role to play,

and it was all perfect,

and it was all beautiful –

whether he found a bed,

or whether he died in the street,

it was all ok,

because the angels were coming either way.

by Scott Thomas Outlar