I found God at the end of my hand, glistening with the rain and sweat on my fingertips. The lady behind me found hers in the tobacco window of a consignment store. A group gathered around her sitting, standing, gawking, cooing as the murk and mist and spare change soaked our clothes. Some were In and Outers, Off and Onners, Sunday Sleepers, Twice-a-Year Chreasters, and Cafeteria Catholics who came to prove they didn’t just do the holidays. And some were curious innocents, beckoned from their earbud confessionals for a glimpse, a proof, a right of first refusal. But a man who bumped me with hurried apology pushed his way through bodies to the front. He plastered tears on the shoulders of critics, gathered murmurs and hush hushes in all his pockets as he teetered closer to his knees, weeping and fingering the holes in all his clothes; searching for an offering to give his God. The neon sign that hugged the air behind the glass flickered, and for a second I thought we would all cum. Aloud, I read, Cash Only as the sign burnt out. I left to jerk off in silence, in private.
Patrick Panageas is a furtive poet living in Allston, MA. He thinks too much to sleep and in the quiet alley-lit space between each snooze, his fingers capture the laughing, screaming, crying, and sexually frustrated voices of his brain. Eventually, he drifts off and wakes to work as a Writer, Bartender, Sound Engineer, and Musician; doing all with a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hand. Tweet him at: @PPanageas