Mr. Spiritual


Mr. Spiritual

Call me Mr. Spiritual
As if I could negotiate the world
Where a woman in love is quite dangerous
But what is the world really
But a woman in love?

Call me Romeo Rose
ʻCause I am the Phoenix
Risen from the ashes
And my soaring wing span
Is a bouquet offering to God, my Beloved,

For what is the world to me now
But a funeral parlor with a few sauntering hobos
Visiting me at my wake
Where I lay
Burning like an olympic cauldron
And the hoboʼs are commenting, holding back guffaws
“Doesnʼt he look fresh,” they muse,
“He looks better than he ever did
When he was alive!”

For what is the world really
But a trillion love lessons
And picnic baskets crammed with broken hearts
And a couple of sticks – and a beach
And then discovering the ocean and saying
“Holy shit, far be it from me to be God!”
“Hey God, this is inconceivably awesome,
What kind of lunatic are you anyway?”

Call me Dayglow
And Iʼll sit and reassess the entire mission
Maybe call back the commandos
Maybe button it all up and go home
For what is the entire course of existence really
But one gleaming integer
A digit, a spark at night
An eternal scintilla of splendor
A pair of untied shoes, maybe Thom McCann
And, of course, your eyes.

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