17

Sometimes I need to pray. An old 

cigarette machine waits while the 

pneumatic arms makes sure the black 

painted glass door closes. I stomp my 

feet and clap my hands. A shamanistic 

practice to expel demons. I lower 

myself down inside the neon store 

front and swallow two fingers of 

whatever is closest, do it again. The 

liquid is antiseptic and tastes of 

kerosene. A warmth seldom found wraps 

around me like some usable truth. The 

breath that leaves is heavy with 

burned out prayers. The glass is as 

smooth and warm as somebody else's 

blood. But that doesn't happen. There 

is no value in hands that cannot melt 

April snow or hold a god close enough 

to believe in. I wonder when will this

day will end

.