Saint Slayer

another month split down
the middle, broken in two.
a sprawl of winter days
flooding forth in the whine
of a new millenium,
a shifting of gears in
the universal transmission.

i sit here an remember that
i was born before the japanese
bombed pearl harbor. it makes
me feel ancient & worn,
like old boots that have trod
too many rough roads,
kicked too many stones
on the pathway.

i smoke too much & drink
too much coffee. i stare at
this screen too much. i worry
that i don't really give too
much of a shit about anything,
not even whether or not
i live to see the real millenium.

strange to say, but none of these
thoughts are born of depression. i am
far from depressed, although elation
is a foreign to me right now as
a mongolian saint would be should
he step through the door
to my left.

he would momentarily be a dead saint,
stung by the bee of my .357 saint
slayer, thunder in a small bottle.
he would stagger back with an amazed
expression on his odd yellow face,
wondering why i had killed him.
by the time he hit the floor i'd
be wondering myself. but then
i'm always wondering why
i do this or that.

i think i need a rip-roaring drunken
binge, about six months of pushing
it to the wall. one of those sacks-of-
fifths drunks, and valium too, and xanax,
and heroin and cocaine and vicodan and,
and, and, drugs and sex and dope and rock
and roll and bloody murder.

i need to steal a car, go to church,
get right, get wrong, get up, down & sideways,
get screwed, jewed & tattooed.
i need to find the beat road to my own
private blue hellhole, i need to be loved &
hated, adored & murdered, hit with a
quarterback blitz while taking a shit,
put in an uncomfortable position,
held up to ridicule & praised
for being the fool i am.

right now i'd settle for thinking of
things in the present tense instead of
the past. the future seems out of consideration,
however this is just the first month
of a whole new age. more time to get older,

and die.


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