They tell me you went to Uganda
to become a missionary but
they're wrong I know faith was
never your problem it's the mission
part you've always had trouble with
all the days you spent on
that same bench in central park
that same god-damn green bench
with the missing plank and the word     
fuck
spray-painted blood-red across a
concrete support the same concrete
and rotwood you sat in 9 hours a day
with breaks to piss get a hotdog
get a bit more weed a bit more
distracted a bit less honesty a bit
more confidance a bit more sex
appeal but then it was always
                                   back back back
to your green bench with red blood
and your white lily face always
looked to me too content
for the malcontent your torn scarf
and pink combat boots proclaimed
you to be so an identity crisis
may have been forthcoming but
faith has never been a problem
you had faith to spare though who
would have known to look at you
with your glazed eyes and ceramic
soul a dull sheen I can see both our
reflections in so how can I be so
god-damn sure you've got faith
                   because
when you drew me in your kiss was
a kiln overwhelming me overtaking
me i was overcome by my oversight
I was no longer I was no more I was
marijuana distraction honesty
confidance sex appeal and all
the other things that were your
kiss was self-effacing other-effacing
your otherworldliness effaced myself
and for days afterward all I had was
faith in the way you lived I was horrified
because my philosophy tells me that
spending your entire life on a bench
in central park smoking cannabis is
no way to live too static too stagnant
no allowance for motion but then again
you moved to uganda to become a
missionary for liberty and I still cross
central park everyday hoping you'll be
in your bench grinning at a goose so
what the fuck do I know?