The Holy Youth Of Sao Paulo Poem by nathan martin

</>an ancient man under a very young sun
out lived the shadow of his slim suicide.

so he quit smoking and with a rattled throat
plead for the others.

his prayers were for the kids, the skinny burnt
edged children up from the cinderbox.

running, skipping they celebrate lent with
the soles of their feet.

creating samba daylight vigil's on every corner.


now the ash of gods presence floats on the
water through the navel of the city.

the drain pipe priest charge a nickle
for a bottle, over time some called it coca cola.

but still a dark skinned gutter punk jesus races
through the broken streets with all the other
holy youth.

they wear pink and orange flip flop sandles
annoited to speckled shades of crimson by
a bleeding grapefruit that gets kicked through
folded cardboard box goals.

the sun is setting now in the streets of sao paulo
and in the parks on every bench the old wait
in thier tabernacles of wrinkled days.

to sit and watch the pigeons turn to gray grail
in the half blind lunar hour.

they wear a coronation of lanterns on
their heads in the late evening
and speak in strange tounges.