Oh woman
Oh woman
They're playing our song
Sade, here in bed my head 'neath 10 pounds of down
Nursing a hangover, sipping chicory
Staring at my Gretchen Baer six feet wide and half as tall
The only piece of real art I've ever owned now serving as headboard
Called "Leaving Home" it fits me well
My temperament, my eyes-to-the-horizon daydream life.
Oh woman
Where have you gone?
Oh yeah, you're down there
Straight through Earth's core
Out the other side
"Standing under skies looking for holes
Arms outstretched
Waiting for falling birds."
Lovely sentiment, though you may as well be looking at the ground 'neath your feet
I'm more worm than bird
Warm in my bed down here in Sinkhole, USA.
James cries sometimes when I read my work.
It makes me feel uneasy.
I don't take compliments well.
And his tears are nothing if not twisted praise.
The pain writes the poetry, the prose.
Not me.
And he taps that pain like a sugar maple
But the taste for me is bitter.
Recollection, remorse.
This is why I avoid public readings.
They ring of pomp and ego and leave me
Feeling dirty.
But hey, no tears.
No sympathy for the Devil.
Have you heard the news?
They're moving the White House to the La Brea Tar Pits, so strong is that nutfucker's jones for fossil fuels.
With any luck, he'll swim in the muck
We'll have a tar baby for president.
Quid pro quo, eh?
They hung the wrong man, some guy said, almost got his ass shipped down to Guantanamo for his pluck, and I say bravo.
Go man go.
Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
If I were made leader of our jackass backwards government, I'd give every man, woman & child a grenade.
Do it for love of country.
Level the playing field.
Do it in Hunter's name
Fourth Amendment, Bronco!
I'd abolish the work week
Make every day Mardi Gras Day.
If God really did create All This in six days, well, I bet he quit on Tuesday and
Adorned Himself in beads of green, purple & gold.
Oh woman
Go on with your life.
You never did like the Bacchus in me anyway, and Baby, he's goin' strong to this day.
And thanks to you and this poem and the chicory what the Cajun dun drunk,
That mean old hangover be gone.
Time to work up another one.
It's Tuesday with one week left in the world.
This time tomorrow, it'll all be over.
So s'cuse me while I blow this sinkhole and
Stride on down to Napoleon & Magazine
To dance a second line at the jazz funeral
For Liberty & Justice For All
And blow a trumpet out of my ass, singing
All hail the Commander & Chief!
Oh woman
Be glad you are an Aussi
And not an Ameri-Roman
Here & Now
At the ugly end of an empire.
Sieg Heil.
Could UPS be the first wave of the new Nazi regime?
They DO deliver to the world.
Beware of men in brown shirts.
Jesus, if you're coming
You best get here soon.
-RSM
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device
