his whiskey voice echoes among these titan towers,
these high and mighty walls of heartless glass and riveted steel,
which hold stacks upon stacks of inhumane efficiency,
filled with harried people and their clocks.
"Repent! Repent! Before it is too late! Repent!"
such is the sermon of wild-eyed John,
the abbot of these alleys,
the bishop of this concrete realm,
this traffic cop of souls, the souls both rich and poor,
and souls, poor and forever poor,
the accountants and those of no account,
the one-name drifters who keep passing through
and the data makers who keep adding up,
he is the consecrated prophet in this canyon-ed wilderness,
who looks for souls
in these man-made shadows,
these shadows that steal away the sunlight
and leave behind a mist of half-burnt carbon grey.
watch him preach, this crazy man sent from God,
he has no fear, he has no shame,
judged already by those who do that self-appointed work
of judging the worth of lesser souls,
they cast their disdaining looks and tearful pity,
on the likes of wild-eyed John,
but he fights back
with a judgment of his own,
"We have sinned, everyone of us and everyone of you!
Yes, you, my friend. Don't look down at me,
for the Lord above looks down on you!"
wild-eyed John, he is on a mission,
he will preach and preach all day long,
in front of the banker's revolving door,
beside the hot dog vendor's steaming cart,
he will rage on with mystic fire,
with searing words and burning eyes,
as if he were a man who came out of a blacksmith's forge,
his brown and woolen overcoat, a discarded inheritance,
is now fading, fraying into an alb of dust and ash,
worn-out and weathered,
much like this man, this holy man,
this wild-eyed John,
who shouts in city streets,
the words that no one cares to hear.