THIS IS HOW WE HOPE FOR SOMETHING TO HOPE FOR

 

father, son, holy ghost

 

says he feels like shit even

         with the pills,

even with the booze,

and so a little more of each and then

a little more again

 

and he says he’s got this

leaky heart, okay?

 

subtle pains and

dreams of death and

what about the children?

 

what about the days

of immortality?

 

turned away for just a second and

they were gone forever, and

so fuck ‘em

 

and don’t talk to me about

cobain at 65,

or sid,

or the late great j christ

 

don’t tell me how your sister

had morrison’s baby

 

i missed the summer of love but

was around for the summer

of manson, and that should

explain a few things

 

i grew up in the

age of malevolent apathy and

i thrived, and she laughs when i

tell her this

 

says i remember you naked and

crying and being led out

into the woods, and i know for

a fact that i’ve forgotten

how this story ends

 

i remember the boy’s voice and

i remember the girl’s hands,

and then nothing

 

the absolute goddamn

boredom of drugs, right?

 

the fear of

surviving youth

 

the despair of growing old

 

says he feels like shit and all he

can think about is

feeling nothing at all

BACK WHEN WE USED TO BELIEVE THERE WERE THINGS WORTH BELIEVING IN

 

[EVERYONE LOOKS LIKE A TOMBSTONE TO ME]

 

a cage w/in a box

 

all fucked and all

forgotten and a storm moving

in, a theory, a handful of pills on

the rim of the bathroom sink

 

dead man alone on a

minor island

 

phone ringing

in a january room

 

ask yrself the obvious questions

while darkness approaches

and come up with only

the obvious answers

 

the roof will collapse,

the basement will flood, your

children will learn to hate you

 

happiness runs like a river of

blood through all of it

 

daylight amplifies

ordinary fears

 

open yr heart to all

possibilities, and then run

[YOU CAN HANG ON IT, BUT DON'T HANG IT ON ME]

 

[what we wanted was not enough]

 

or maybe it just comes

down to hope vs fear

 

maybe money trumps the truth

 

a goddamn nation of

starving artists

 

a high school dropout sucking

cock in the walmart bathroom

 

at what point does nothing

become better than something?

 

look

 

you can’t waste your whole life

pretending everything matters

 

can’t turn your back on christ

unless you want to feel

his knife go in

 

guy says he loves you,

sure,

but the asshole says that

same shit to everyone

 

tells you he’s the answer

but never bothers

explaining what the question is

 

never really bothers making

any real fucking sense at all

LIKE THE DEAD-EYED STARE OF EVERY POLITICIAN WHO'S EVER DREAMT OF FUCKING YOU UP THE ASS

 

thief

 

every language is the wrong one

 

man tells you stop

fucking with the truth and so

you pull the trigger

 

no gods here

         asshole

  only beauty

 

no desert but the one we all

carry within

medication & prayer

 

growing solitude in

the upstairs hallway

 

sound of rain, of

music turned down low

 

3000 miles is too far

 

wouldn’t know where to

find you, or you, or any of

them, and then wouldn’t

know what to say if i did

 

what i fear is

giving too much away

 

my own words, my own

history, turned back against me

 

my oldest son, who loves

the idea of war

 

who loves to shoot and

be shot and then come in

for dinner

 

paces the room in between

bites, talking and laughing

and joking with his brother

 

doesn’t believe that pollock

died for his sins

 

has both his hands, both

his feet, even as the soldiers

keep kicking in doors, and

what i fear is the truth held up

to the light of the afternoon

                                       sun

and i’m sick of not

saying your name

 

am starving on the

rancid meat of regret

 

would gladly put out the

horse’s eyes myself, if the

fucker would just hold still

DANCING ON THE CORPSES OF THE ENEMIES OF FREEDOM

 

HUNTED CHRIST LIKE A DOG, DROVE HOME THE TRUE MEANING OF FAITH

 

WHEN AND WHERE YOU DIE, BUT NOT WHY. NOT HOW.