They will ask you to come and sit with them and tell them your stories of late night 7-11 adventures, drinking malt liquor and pelting the empty bottles at cop cars.
Smoking an endless procession of the hand-wrapped-and-tied in case any one important drives by, anyone but the usual rotation of life’s extras that inhabit this corner of this dimension of this dance diagram in this reflection on the surface.
He is looking for you.
Sand stuck to the red polyester curves and his pink-neon sun-burnt legs, cancerous resins peel away from his flesh to stone the sand creatures.
He is arranging dandelions on your lawn into I-Ching hexagrams. He is sending you messages in the letters and numbers on the license plates of the cars that line your street.
You listen to his voice late at night on the jazz station, under the music he is muttering knowledge into your head. “You know how God got rich? Real estate, man, look at all the property dedicated to his name. Church hierarchy is the worlds longest running pyramid scheme, even more so than the Egyptians.”
In the late afternoon you find yourself awake and sober again, having to restart your buzz. You light up your first smoke, breathe in with a sigh, and out with a yawn, gazing at the string holding the brown leaf of paper together, studying the intricacies of the tiny knot, your pink thread mandala.
You are simply killing time, waiting for the day when you will meet the second coming in the subway tunnel, playing guitar for spare change. He will explain, in order to make as big an impact as last time, he will need a steady rotation on MTV.
You will bum a bidi from him and wait for your love to come and steal you away. He the man in the red teddy with the green smokey aura, he is the woman for you.
Don’t be fooled by the bristle of his beard.