The greatest poet I ever heard was on a bus ride through Manhattan. His grubby hands flailed at the words pouring out on his whiskey-soured breath as my fellow passengers huddled away from the smell of his piss-damp clothes. Words flew free and wild, no safety net, no rules, no brakes. Despite the stench and sweat of summer and plastic seats, I was aloft on an American prayer. Was Jim Morrison alive? Here on the bus? Scaring these people? And I thought: This is what Jesus looked like, and the other people on the bus, they just can’t see it.
Julia Kantic is a writer and editor who reads, writes, and delights in words and the spaces in between. medium.com/@juliakantic