The Street Preacher on the Avenue pointed to the heavens, yelling, yelling
His megaphone preaches:
“Wake up! Arise! The Eclipse is happening, the Eclipse is happening!
The Oceans turns to coffee, the sky becomes an ashtray,
Dogs take up knitting instead of barking,
Women get degrees, children fact check, men ballroom dance,
Anarchy! The end is nigh!
The eclipse is a sign, a sign the world is winding down, on its last cycle!
“Sign up with me, get yer affairs in order,
Drop the yoga mats, leave the double soy lattes behind,
Sell yer possessions and bring the money to me,
Time to get busy, Jesus is on the next bus!
That’s what the eclipse is telling us!”
And I look upwards, skywards.
To the heavens, to the stainless steel sky winking thunderclouds,
Gray, black, streaked spun full of rainwater.
Experts tell me, I guess: there is an eclipse but it’s behind the clouds.
Just clouds, no messages from God.
Every 18th months there’s an eclipse somewhere on the planet,
Why-oh why-is it sign from God only in the US (and some parts of Canada
Like Mont Blanc, I walk down the Avenue.
A young kid sitting on the pavement, a dog asleep by his side.
He looks up, recognizes me. I look down, see him.
He lifts up a cup of joe to me. “Take it, I took too many from the Mission. Didn’t touch it with my lips. Yours.”
I take it, I wanted coffee.
Not really the Chalice of Christ, but it’ll do.
It makes the style of Jesus: talk with a gift and not with a megaphone.
Coffee, not Armageddon.
ericjkregel 