there used to be gods on this street.
not the marble ones
not the temple types.
the gutter ones.
gods of rusted swings and needles,
gods who smoked crack behind dive bars
and fucked in confession booths just to prove a point.
they used to walk here
barefoot, belligerent,
talking shit with hookers and taxi drivers,
blessing broken windows,
leaving fingerprints on thighs and bottle caps.
i met one once,
a god with too many teeth and a laugh like a blender.
he called me prophet
right before stealing my last cigarette
and pissing on a mural of Jesus.
we drank together
shared a blunt and a wound,
talked about the end times like it was just another wednesday.
but they’re gone now.
evicted by condos and optimism.
the new gods wear suits and have apps.
they talk about disruption and growth
and leave no miracles, only invoices.
me?
i still light candles in alleyways.
still write scripture on bathroom walls.
still waiting for the old gods to come back
drunk and stinking of weed.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
