two holes in my back
prove I rode the lightning for five
and I wonder why I do this
time and again
I don’t like being nobody’s
But I am good at it
I may want to be your clothes
Only so I can come off
Yesterday the answer was no
But I didn’t stop wondering
My stories are always fantastic
But only after the 20th telling and a few beers
The stairway to heaven rests – covered in age old blood and anger and lies and distrust – must have been hard on you to keep the lies hidden for so many centuries – play the angel when you are the devil’s soul – smile and laugh as you sing barefoot in the church choir – no one notices that the wood beneath your feet burns and chars – tell the world your lies till they accept it for truth – corrupt in the name of religion – those who see different become heretics sacrificed to your unforgiving rage.
In the beauty of the night’s light it fell – broke on the soft earth below – faded into dust – no tears could bring it back but I couldn’t cry any so it wouldn’t have mattered if tears could resurrect it from the bone dry dust – the winds blew scattering dust like smoke until the eye couldn’t find the particles anymore – in the night I opened my eyes and the darkness was gone replaced by everything – eyes closed again because darkness was safer than everything – breath faded like the shattered shards of it then faded into the dust and blew away into smoke – and I was gone forever.
Under the influence of a Yellow Tail and Shock Top induced freedom I talked of dreams – how Ireland calls not as my homeland or my heritage – but as my escape from the place that kills my soul piece by piece day by day – she said I’ll come see you there and well get trashed on a Sunday night in an Irish pub on Guinness or the like – we’ll do a damn fine job because I can drink and so can you – I talked of the fact that my curse is wanting nothing less than everything and she said when you get everything you feel everything and the curse doesn’t go away it just changes a little – before ten arrived we left for our beds and Merlot sitting on the head boards where we left them four hours before.
Tomorrow I will be me again – but I have no idea who that is anymore – maybe I have never known – the only place I have an idea is under the wide-open skies or on parchment in ink.
Tomorrow I will leave here – to where is still a question mark engraved permanently on my brain matter which quit receiving blood and oxygen months ago.
Tomorrow I want to stand in the rain – let it wet my cheeks paste clothing to body and wash away the world – simply stand and soak up the sky that falls from above – watch lightning split the air into fragments of rage – smile at how small I am.
Tomorrow I will let myself feel.