Bent and Beat

the last american prophet falls to his knees enthralled by rapturous visions

on a trendy corner of a summer parched small town

in front of a middle eastern restaurant much to the confusion of the al fresco diners

who stare down onto wrought iron table tops into half eaten plates of falafel and schwarma

smirking and murmuring to their companions

he points at the sun, a dancing ball in the sky, circling and spinning

his eyes remain firmly locked upon it

no one looks up

and in the blue toyota he left parked across the side street his sole disciple reaches over to the driver's seat and turns on the blinking yellow hazards

then returns to his silent observation

a girl with jingling ankle bells hung over dirty barefeet walking a brown mutt with a length of red rope as tattered as her patchwork skirt pauses to stare at him briefly

head cocked like her mongrel

she follows his gaze

then quickly away, her eyes stinging from staring into the sun

and delivers officially the verdict of the crowd then tinkles off down the street

the mystic cries in a voice filled with awe and joy

but no one else looks up

and the last american prophet is led away without the need for cuffs

'a docile zealot touched by a grace the hummus eaters and mustached pigs will never know'

thinks the blue shirted disciple

perambulating the hallowed ground