(revised) yes, it's long. Yes, you can still read it in a few minutes time |
Played lawn darts in the living room again Fuck. You know how hard it is to plant Jesus feet-first into close-cropped carpeting when He’s got all of those damn rosary beads attached to him. The cable went out. I called my congressman to see if he’d finally broken down and bought that jar of Grey Poupon I’ve been asking to borrow. It rained. I told myself I was stoned so I could stop thinking and fix my bike. It rides so smoothly now that the tires have air in them. The handlebars only turn one way. Doesn’t matter. Must be pretty funny, though, watching somebody signal a left turn and make three rights instead. But you were wrong they didn’t laugh. At least, I don’t think they did. I didn’t hear them. Hell, maybe they laughed. I don’t know. I had my eyes closed, trying to smell the ocean. The glorious chlorinated petroleum vapors that wafted into my nostrils from heaven below as we stood on cloud eight drifting on wave after amber wave of safety-railed Holiday Inn balconies that overlooked macadam beaches and tides of pedestrians shouting obscenities and calling us insane for emptying the ice bucket onto their heads. You laughed and told them it was an accident. I laughed and asked you who Insane was. When did we finally run into those cassocked Jesus wannabes? I don’t remember. But they asked you if I’d been saved, and you shook your head and I laughed because your nose always twitches when you lie. I forgot the nails were there after a while. That’s what they never understood. I don’t know why you wouldn’t show them. They would have believed you. But I kept my gloves on and you left your mallet in the car. You never loved anyone else the way you loved me. We flew home through the fog in a lead-winged Windstar Jesus’ carcass flopping against your sternum in a freon breeze. Why were you wearing that thing at the dinner table the night he read The Raven aloud between salad forks and dessert plates? I got so distracted staring at His face and trying to bend my knees and slump my shoulders so my arms would point to ten and two that I never heard you tell him that the pen, the pen, the almighty pen spews poison onto blotter paper that questions everything but answers nothing and skews the truth by fortifying the ramparts of whole-hearted imagination and somebody painted a furious something of a rotten whore, but I was bored, so I passed the time by writing out my will in gravy on the table cloth. I did the best I could with the spoon in my mouth, but you couldn’t tell what it said so you bleached it clean. I never saw those ten-penny manacles again once you planted a foot on my wrists and pedaled the crow bar with the other and showed me just how loud I could scream. I called you names as I tried my feet for the first time in decades. Sacrilege, I suppose. You’ll have to forgive me. I should have thanked you for stripping me of your robe and unfurling my atrophied wings. But I had places to go, people to see, debts to pay, second-hand tabernacles to scalp by the Troy ounce. I tried to call but I couldn’t use my real name so you didn’t accept the charges and I called you a cunt as I hung up the phone and I’m sorry we haven’t talked since then. Ah, but the bike, the bike, the mud-caked iron-crusted manual transmission two-and-a-half speed mountain bike. That’s what I was telling you about. Too bad I haven’t had the chance to get myself knocked up just yet. I could use a few gullible ears right now. That’s what kids are for, isn’t it? You fill their heads with your mistakes and send them out to seize the world one shotgun shell at a time. You feed them hate and horror stories until their adrenaline glands kick in and their hormones rage and they’re too busy bashing in the brains of every man, woman, and child that acts or looks or talks like you to listen to your bullshit wisdom anymore. You tell them about death and drugs and rock and roll and sex and Woodstock and communism and broken condoms and doctored drinks and your cousin’s roommate’s boyfriend’s uncle’s wife’s godmother’s sister’s stepson’s boa constrictor’s regurgitated breakfast that swears it saw a girl pedal straight into the high beams that bounced off of the hailstones that fell from the sky and honked at the furious rotten whore who landed on her feet or her hands or her head and I can’t remember which because I was stoned and I’m sorry im sorry, but I must have kept riding, got back on and kept going, because now I’m here in this mosh pit of screaming and yelling and moaning and crying but Mama I love you. Mama I’m home and it looks like the flames have been kind to you. I want to hug you and tell you about the places I’ve been the commandments I’ve broken the lives I’ve taken but I’m bleeding from the eyes and I can’t feel my legs so you’d better just fetch the nails if you think you can forgive me long enough to love me again. Put me up on my crutch and we’ll laugh like old times at the curses of the damned as our frozen crucifixes skip over the tidal wave of oven-toasted insanities like weathered stones on an infant stream. Won’t the fire eat away at the macadam? I want to smell the ocean burn. Hold me, Mama, and I’ll stay here with you from now until never. Hurry Pin me down, do it quick, and swing the mallet fast before I forget how good it felt to scream. |