I lit this candle today
for the first time
in years. I let it burn
while I said my Prayer
To the Hustle-Gods and The Universe (because
this candle came from Paducah,
from a barn where I might have died
but instead gave my first commercial hummer–
I hate that term, but it flows. I’d told him
I was a masseuse, then I rubbed him
with olive oil I’d scented
with cheap, drug store perfume.
He bought wax fuck-ups from a nearby candle factory
and poured it into glass and sold them for $3.
He gave me this one on my way out.)
My dime store Voodoo runs like this:
Today I lit this candle
that I haven’t lit in years.
It’s perfect. Serendipitous even.
So all hail the hustlers,
the lunatics and queens
of making it all come
together. Bless those
saloon girls and the men who pay them,
the honest dealers who mean no harm
(like that one in Gary
who came to my apartment when he found out
I’d overdosed on his stuff.
I gave him a book on Egypt and cried.).
Thank you for all this grace.
Coffee or Suicide 