I have a friend who lives in a tower in a city where the mountain traps the rain between them like wild things trap prey.
He hides his heart in whiskey bottles and serves it up to anyone who makes the pilgrimage to hear him speak,
his words of pleasure and the absurd have filled room and halls and echo long after he leaves;
and every bit of this city rumbles when he laughs.
Outside of words, he lives in an altar of consumerism and his walls are filled with chantings in the night, prayers of Rumi and the low buzzing of devices.
He collect us like we are stray cats and dysfunctional dolls, to put on shelves and his desks and his sofa.
With soothing words and sly smiles he tells us to stop acting so small for we are the universe in ecstatic motion.
And although the words belong to someone else, his hands on the back of us as we try to go on is all him.
I have a friend who lives in a tower, in a city where rain washes everything clean too often for my taste.
But he has a suit for every occasion and a smile for every broken heart except his own.
And we walk the streets to his house like disciples to a place of prayer.