The last call was a prank

that left him clutching the empty bottle.

The bartender, expert in negotiation,

had to talk him down off the table

in order to get his deposit back.

He slipped from the pub

on its puddle of tears

into a jaundiced dawn with bad kidneys.

Skinny cows on a dusty pasture

And a bunch of worn out revolutionaries

in camouflage wings sitting between barbs

on the wire fence listlessly oiled

their semi-automatics smuggled in

long ago from Afghanistan.  

His desire to cry reminded him of onions.

It felt wrong that time should collapse

while its architects in their penthouse

office lean over drafting tables

high above the smog of the Law.

The end is near

to the beginning.

The river Jordan

deltas in Gethsemane

and it´s wilderness as far as eyes can see.

Someone once in a suit

gave him a business card—

simple, bold letters:

                     MINISTERING ANGELS

                                       DAIL: 777

He´s got to find himself

find himself a phone.

A coyote howls his last call.

This time it´s serious.

That´s good,

he says to his spirit,

at least we´ve got friends here.