13
diseased lightning striking me twice, don’t
know all these people, their head in a vice
so what if none of them, in my heaven,
exist—or even worse, they exist elsewhere
every bit as good as me. but i believe the
way we live our life informs us in
the life to come—to be outstanding, here,
and, therefore, there, is the favored outcome
though some of us, i guess, would be content
to live, happily, under a code of conduct,
unified by His iron hand—going, hell-bent
in His direction, which, above all, is pleasing
to all—save the lot of us that don’t exist—
or, even worse, exist elsewhere, every bit
as good as me. I believe, don’t I, that I am
superior to them . . . or else they’d be here
ruling over me.
that’s the catch, Jack, and the answer to His question? Tell me, tell me—Leonardo I see; you go on doing what you love, when, as it happens, you’re lazy as shit . . . but with the noblest of intentions . . . so it all came rising with the wings of time, and you’re here, friend, the stooge of a lifetime
Now, what? this is live; crazy as all get out, I imagine, then, that I am Him: the double dick of our foundation: be, then, the impossible in me: i’m up for it, loco . . . she is the enemy. So, quick, I’m telling you, again, this is live—we’re recording it explicitly for them, creatures without stamina, or the inclination
let’s dive right in what is your sin tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine—living, lady, on borrowed time: His candle burning from both ends, living this way is too expensive can’t survive on hardtack and tobacco
chip on his shoulder, well, to put things in perspective, i don’t like him either; pompous buffoon, hardly my leader. why let me into your life? married a fatty,
the closer we get to the resurrection,
the fatter these poor people get, well, i
won’t hold it against you, knowing that,
well, you do the best you can: Hold the line
idiots of England subtracting His traction
and measuring themselves up against this
redaction . . . well, you can go to hell, Pancho
if, that is, that’s what you want, which, i think
it most certainly is, given your penchant
for selfish women with plebian ties
O dear heart, don’t tell me more, sucking
his dick because he told me too, well, lass
are we square . . . because, I think, deep down
you care. But that’s just me making excuses
for You, faux pas blond making love on a
toilet; we’ll get him when he turns His back
King of the Jews, digital artifact; silence
the crackling of the devil’s fire, warming
up, a little—fire is a luxury, you monkey
tell it too me like it is, wood-stove
kitchen . . . I’m going to be in showbiz,
so determined, then, to show off my rock
blond with muscle—His Viking harlot,
going to Chinatown with love on the brain,
i absolve you of your sins, do it again,
but yeah, i suppose—damned Italian booze,
women worth raping: cut the fucker loose
shine a light here, there, wherever you like. You’ll find, I think, a delta spike: so we shift to the left, and we shift to the right: but living, no less, at the origin well, shady mathematics—I angle for the sun, woman thinks i’m crazy, and i couldn’t see it—couldn’t protect hardly anyone
Saving somehow He was looking after me: got lucky many times over—saving my luck, I think, didn’t give a fuck—it was all a function of the profit i give back to them: don’t think you really know what this is like: driving across Texas, something about the negro doesn’t feel right
censor me nutty . . . internet porn; can’t sit at the computer without getting anxious for His you know what . . . sticking it to this woe-begone object . . . turning me gay as fast as the lights will dim: thinking, surely, that I am Him