Not Drunk, but Rather Employed in the Subway

I am prophet and heavy.
Oh, so!
Heavy with bright yell-the-ow light
that streams from my light-bulb bald head
overhead.

I glow hellish hot with holy energy.
My filament words, I mean,
grow hellish hot—
holy with yodels for repentance,
holy with prophesy, holy for human.

My soul is—
My solar powered soul is—
<Sigh.> My soul is a—
This is going to sound crazy.
Well, it's kind of like—

A solar battery power lamp for this subterranean people!
Let it glow forth! Bzing! Hoolay!
to illuminate your what
of fumbled steps on dark crooky stairs.

My tonsils shake with the message
the mess of the age.
What I mean to say is that
my message is messy, aged, and pfft-ed.

Do you see? This beard is for hiding pain in,
to look like old man Noah, not drunk
(I am not drunk. I'm perfectly sober.)
A beard grown all thick and curly rough with revelation,
to wipe up another flood, or perhaps a Red Sea.

I am prophet yah and zee!
It's like there's a small child trying to crawl out of my throat
Or a childish word, maybe.

I need an Aaron mouthpiece
I need a place to stay.
Perhaps I will  just lay my head down upon this newspaper
and let its headlines speak for me.

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