saddle up, young blood, we’re going for
a ride—the troll king lives at the ocean,
fighting each other with our broad sword,
loving a princess that remains a virgin
troll king, no doubt, wants to make me afraid
hold on to power and you will be saved,
do you think of anything but getting laid?
i suffer, so i write, eases the agony,
but really it’s a job—like anything else
getting rewarded for the good times, but
not exactly—i’d rather be drinking and
watching TV—fucking on occasion, making
a family . . . but it wouldn’t be heaven if we
weren’t going somewhere, so i work
in the day time and drive the lot at night
talking at the switchboard with a pocket knife
whittling away my boredom and my shame
this is the afterlife—everything is the same
so I subtract the physical pain I might feel,
if, for example, I got a raw deal -
No violence in heaven—no physical
accident; it’s just me and my moonshine
plus the places that we’re a-going to,
I complain a little but really I’m fine
sifting through the bullshit that enters my
mind well, depression kicks in, too much
cussing—I cuss up a storm—now that I’m
young enough to express what I am—
the nonsense that gushes down the life’s
highest mountain; where do you go, what are
you now? Longing, frankly, for my fife,
i’d play you a tune if you’d get out of the car
really i’m happy as a movie star . . . this is
someone else that takes possession of me,
trickling down from his sovereignty,
too much soda pop—will I ask the question?
what are you living for when you don’t
belong to me? But I’m moving too fast, and
you can’t freaking have me . . . that’s the crux
that I feel—same as you—jealous of me
well, i get around, don’t I, because I must;
diamonds, for me, are made of coal dust,
all the time in the world—new discoveries
but feeling a change in my body chemistry
let me listen, a little, for your voice . . . are
you still there? Do we have any other choice?
Don’t want to live a thousand miles away
but that, i guess, for the knowledge of heaven,
is a small price to pay. put my arm around
You if I freaking could—lay off the cussing,
too much, now, and I’ll be misunderstood,
karma is a bitch—excuse the fucking itch,
but yeah—do tell, there is no living in hell
you just get a glimpse before you get help
standing like a sentry—cancer stick in hand,
i’ll smoke in heaven—won’t matter to You
since, in heaven, we tame the freaking shrew
woe to everybody that steps in my way, i’m
followed by Christians both night and day,
let me down from this point—want to be You
why must literature be so serious?
because we’re the lot that would experience
pain if it weren’t for our prophet and His
undying shame . . . something to talk about
living between the sheets: this is not an
ideal situation, friend—digging for gold
thanks for joining this bull conversation
just lamenting the fact that my woman
doesn’t live here—i’ll be digging forever
wishing my conscience was crystal clear,
what i’d do, Tonto, for the perfect wife,
someone to channel a go-lucky life,
minus the plot about what’s happening
to me—what happened, before, lo, now
I rise, sure, I’m coming for thee—but
to live, presently, without losing time
would be the ideal presence of my mind
amplified by the pitch i concede, lowdown
mind’s eye—making up for His confusion
slow down the conversation, need a rhythm
to be free—someone to respond to, when
I’m doing the deed to my fucking country
backchannel mama—who wants to get hitched?
Looking up at a razor loud as his bitch,
telling me—love, we can’t get there fast
enough; shouldn’t be forced to please myself
and yet, i guess, there’s method to the scene
exit stage left, reporting what You denied