[i have fashioned for myself some plastic religion, some ever mailable ancestor worship.]
the rum hits the candles and they flame up then sputter out. it drips and beads on the well waxed wood. the tiny lights and statues watch, far more patient than i.
i close my eyes, popping a pill to move again without vomiting or crying in pain on the floor of the living room, and i wish for rain. rain is such a simple dream, not health or money, or some other foolish extravagance. seems that they could bring me that?
and what is an angel, but a ghost in drag?