by Jim Tyack

LAST week my guru,
at another incoherent ceremony
said: ''Let's swap afterlifes.''

I listen to him carefully;
he's got his drone down
to a cross between

the squeal of an out of control Studebaker
going off the Verrazzano Bridge
and an Australian aborigine drum.

He never asks for money,
he'll drink anything you offer
and wears a funny hat.

He can stare into nothingness for hours,
his unblinking gaze as flat as
a dead bird on the highway.

When he reveals what he's seen
no one can understand him except his mother.
She thinks he's a saint

Previously published in A Limousine to Nowhere (Street Press, 1994).

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