Who knows where
they come from
or how they find me,
but they do.

In droves,
in bunches,
in great mysterious migrations.

The weak, the weary,
the sick, the sad,
the deranged, depraved,
drugged and drunken.

The confused, contagious,
compulsive,
addicted to sex, booze,
belts and bruises,
used, abused
and useless.

Drawn by some force,
some unseen beacon,
signaling out across
the star spangled waste lands.
Each with their own
perfect plan,
some diseased design.

Go ahead,
laugh it up!

Even the most devout priests,
the holiest of spiritual teachers,
smile in their sleep,
as the confessions of an idiot magnet,
Parades through their dreams.