Being & Existence (the convenience store clerk in NE Portland said heknew Bagdad like the back

of his hand but version)

I drag the WalMart cross into a Pizza Schmizza,
and there is the virginal counter girl I remember
from a different Pizza Schmizza.
Want to ask her if she has experienced bi-location,
but am not quite myself today.
Not encumbered by a cross after all,
and there is a red sea tint on the foam
of my pint of D.U.I..

I go outside. Spring is already there,
in a pink & white bonnet of wry smiles.

As usual I spoil the moment with an uncovered sneeze,
almost spilling pale green Pernod
onto a yellow picnic table,
against which I have leaned a different cross.

A red Bic lighter, but nothing to smoke,
and worse, nothing to read.

But everything is a word anyway,
as orthodox theologians like to remind us.

And don't forget, I tell myself,
you did get almost half way through
Being & Existence,
which might be worth something.

Moonlighting again from her job
in a Paris nightclub circa 1930,
one time Picasso model and cigarette girl, Annette,
sidles up to this interesting mise en scene,
a tray suspended from her petite waist:
and remembers the brand of unfiltered Turkish I prefer.

As I lean forward into the Bic's flame,
the same solemn yet joyful procession begins on Main Street.

Be-ribboned sheep and medieval peasants.
A tall statue of a short man kept aloft. His lips fluttering.
Much abuse of drum and other instruments,
(Instruments I'm unable to find on Google).
The statue, or icon, sports an aluminum foil halo.
(found pages and pages of halows).

After they go by, turn the corner, and disperse,
under unretractable dome of heaven,
the cigarette girl blows ashes off a sparrow.
The same sparrow that has been exploiting me for building material.
Which would explain, I guess,
all the chirping coming from the cross.