in my house i have a penny altar
it is a penny of cosmic accident
wise in self-placement against
the south wall the wall of sun
two feet in front of the choctaw.

the choctaw: a white deerskin backed
sun/star in the round with matching dangles
mostly done in white beads in blue bluer
yellow red redder and brown.
its string: white beads braided
three beads wide. it's got dried flowers
and a vivid the colorado in utah stuck in it now.

the choctaw was made in mississippi by
a choctaw artist whom i never found
though the broken bow park ranger gave me
her business card.

my walls are white and bare, save for
the choctaw and a home sweet home sign:

the home sweet home sign hangs in the hallway
and says: oh nine one es cee ex. that's nearly onan one sex
if you throw in a little texan. this is not a vanity plate.
it too is cosmic and accidental. it says texas eighty-nine.
hangs on a crude jute rope and two nails that were there
cosmically and accidentally provided for it by the previous
people.

outside the angels have the city sing a song of
shivering lights. the further out you look say 10 miles
out the more angels you're looking through -- the shiverer.
on dry nights it gets so angelic i issue an angel alert
but nobody listens save for my entranced visitors.

overhead missionaries sigh flashing their gang
insignia at god... american 110 on approach to el-19
two miles altitude 8 cat lives (one not in service) roger
american 110 you're clear for landing at el-19 god.

i don't believe in god but i use it some of the time.
god lies constantly 10 miles due west as the missionary
flies south of foster north of bryn mawr.
by the way thought i should tell you: god is too busy
directing traffic to listen to let alone answer prayers.

i usually see the missionaries in droves -- two
droves at a time staggered and safely kept apart.

no stars sing in the marmalade sky the color singed
by the city onto the buttocks of visitor clouds.

at best an acid-washed jupiter trips on moonless nights
and the missionaries who retire by eleven but until then
busybee widebelly at converting the consenting
airborne souls onto the frequent born-again plans of
outside sales and shopping is a feeling freewheel.

i know me a girl who will not be born again.
she never flies. i asked her to quench her apprehensions
to hotly multiply her graces by injecting a close proximity
to me afforded by the palpable impositions of missionaries
on a hajj to port god. i'll even vacuum, i said. no dice.

did i mention we live in hell? yes god myself
and millions of others? above all the visions of
flashing missionaries angels rising in mass and
the pleasing shines and rumbles of my neato toy trains
(they's got lights! they's got little people inside them!)
the flashing sounds and lights i witness to the most
they say:

it was yours pal... now it's mine:

home auto. life.