Saturday, May 26, 2012

Walking with God in Woodstock?




Ron, who sells jewelry next to the information booth in Woodstock
Told me I had God inside of me
He wasn’t one of the Jesus freaks I had to peal off me
In the days when I sold drugs on Hollywood Boulevard,
He meant if I came to Woodstock looking for answers
I should look inside myself,
“We’re standing on holy ground,” he said. “Native Americans
Buried their dead here.”
I never met Ron before and won’t likely meat him again
At least not soon, but I could feel the crack of bones
Each time I took a step near that space, and cringed,
Wondering why all the tourists that filled the shops
Along all sides of the square did not hear the bones
Cracking, too, and blame me for that as well,
I didn’t need more guilt heaped on me
Since I’d come with a back pack loaded with me own
Needing an answer to spring up at me,
Rather than off some dark roof some night
All I wanted was for someone to tell me
I’m not as bad as I think I am
And what I got was Ron, telling me
That I walked here with God,
While I could hear in my head was the cracking bones
And the falling body of an angel
From some roof top somewhere
An angel without wings
Who probably had God in her, too
And I just didn’t see it.

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