It's mostly sunny, 47F, by the Bay. The old F line streetcar's calling me for a roll down Market. Pondering. I'm about to enter inner space - Life on Mars. There's a second season marathon awaiting. Anything you'd like to advise, warn, encourage? In the meantime . . .

pastor jones

old pastor jones sat upon the railroad tracks, listening for sweet
heaven's call, he'd been singing blues with jocko and his daddy,
making syncopation with the devil's band, oh what a sunday

this has come to be, and he'd brought his homely sermons, a little
eucharistic wine, taken crackers from the catholic place on grand,
now the sun was setting, the jays were strutting with their dance,

and pastor jones was wondering if jesus would come down
and take his hand, maybe put him in a chariot of gold, would
wipe his brow all free of earthly sweat, would he take him

from the demon's clutch, but if he'd pawned his absolution, sold
his promise by the pound, could he yet purchase some forgiveness,
find sleep with the ending of the day, or would the train he felt

acoming, simply take his breath away