dead men
don’t care what the surgeon general thinks
dead men
drive around with no place to go
dead men
figure the come-on at the end of the bar, more trouble than she’s worth
dead men
hold alcohol in a medicinal light
dead men
will sleep in their work clothes
dead men
never need to RSVP
dead men
buy cars, and smokes, based solely on price
dead men
avoid eye contact at all cost
dead men
doodle on the obituary page
dead men
drive on bald tires with cracked windshields.
dead men
accept with resignation, the next day’s hangover
dead men
listen to Coltrane, and Davis, start to finish, no interruptions
dead men
don’t floss
dead men
will drink their Sake cold
dead men
don’t sweat expiration dates
dead men
never wear bandages
dead men
are past blaming anyone
dead men
see horse-shit and diamonds the same
dead men
don’t care where the candle-wax falls
dead men
forget what day of the week it is
dead men
can’t get to sleep at night, can’t wake up in the morning
dead men
have nothing in their hands
dead men
never ask another chance
dead men
have no need to make sense of anything
dead men
play dumb when they know they’re being lied to
dead men
have made the connection between sorrow and desire
after losing the thing he loves
a dead man will spend the rest of his days
anesthetizing the past
pouring gasoline on the future
dead men
have no fear of dying the second time
maybe the angel watching over me
strikes a match along the corner of my eye
the way them TV outlaws use their cowboy boots
whenever they need to light up a smoke
or maybe the skittish ghost of a firefly
tries to engage me in blind man’s mystic bluff
I turn to look-too late-I miss it
left to ponder the validity of the hidden message
it happens all the time beyond the borders
micro sunspot surfing the line of sight
Marlboro angel in a nicotine fit
fires up when God looks the other way
in these late breaking days
rebellion has become
the most ragged of fashion statements
the banality of it symbolized
by certain
hairstyles, cigarettes, rock bands, automobiles
a saltpeter-fueled revolution
defiance institutionalized
from our home entertainment centers
we see, we hear,
the latest corporate anti-heroes
as they sun themselves
along the banks of the mainstream
mega stars
idolized by thundering herds
spilling forth
from the nearest shopping mall
were you to ask me
I would tell you
lovers with a cause
are the real rebels
the spiritual benefactors,
the wounded heroes,
the mystics eternally misunderstood
with fine grit paper
working against the grain
hands slivered and bleeding
creating hidden beauty
in time
through their labor
floating free-form
defying the gravity
of power, greed, envy,
detached-disconnected
born anew
these spirit artists become suspect
a kind of threat to social order
to be burned at a stake
nailed to a cross
assassinated by sniper fire
getting them out of the way
we make martyrs of them
coz the dead don’t scare us
the way living flesh and bone does
it’s easier to glorify a touched up past
than face a future
we seem hell-bent on desecrating
one by one
all are shot down
and when the fields where the wildflowers grow
have been bulldozed and destroyed
then spring is gone
and what’s left
is a sort of somber confusion
as hard to define
as that 4 letter word
we so readily cut and paste
to fit our purpose
Smoke ring in a windstorm
old man with blindfold and cigarette
at the university he had "shown promise"
was called a "diamond in the rough"
but the years have gotten away from him
he pissed away his time
now he waits for the phone to ring
for Gabriel to call and ask if he has one last request
from the beginning desire had been a map without names
never sure where he was or where he was going
change made for the sake of change
point A to point B in a car painted primer gray
he drank too much-slept too much
read too much-chased "easy" too much
never finished the book he had been writing
for the last 24 years
now the Rambler sits on blocks
the manuscript lost somewhere in the attic
he calls himself "invisible man on blue planet"
the events of his life written in disappearing ink
nothing to offer as evidence of having circled the Sun
staring at the autumn sky, chain smoking, sipping tea,
he waits for the angels to raise their rifles
and take him home
I’m sick of you
and your "ace in the hole"
the way you twirl it around your finger
cocking then releasing
the hammer
stroking it
tonguing the butt-end
pleasuring yourself with the barrel,
when low on batteries
you like holding it to my head
telling me
how "hard it is to be you,
too many difficult decisions"
and other bullshit like that
you must think
that if you point the business end at me
and give me the
"I don’t know what to do" speech
long enough
I’ll make a run for it
de-burdening you
of promises you could never keep
and a body to dispose of
wrong
I’m not going anywhere
all those difficult decisions
that you like to talk up
come down to this:
you put the gun away,
slip out the back door,
barrel between your legs
or
you look me in the eye,
and squeeze the trigger
it’s simple
makes no difference to me
Kenny the security guard
strongly suspected
time was running out on his "dream"
recent weight gain and hair loss
had prompted him to take action
like the great Robert Johnson,
decades before
he had decided on the "Crossroads"
he would go there
and try to cut a deal with the Devil
he picked up his autographed, limited edition,
Jimmy Page Model, Gibson SG Double-Neck
and started walking
upon arrival, the first thing he noticed was the crowd
it was like a Macy’s Day-after-Christmas Sale
pure chaos and desperation-people everywhere
the area had undergone extensive development
on one corner a Crossroads strip mall
on another a Hyundai dealership
across the street
there was a Quick-Rip convenience store
and facing that,
Buster’s house of body piercing and tattoos
the flow of cars was controlled
by a newly installed 4-way traffic light
proving the tax-payer’s money at work
the throng waiting to see Satan was massive
the sidewalk looked like
a narrow black tributary of guitar cases
a guy with plastic horns and pitch fork
was working the crowd
selling "I made a deal with the Devil" T-shirts
Kenny noticed a sign bordered with red flames
warning all would-be guitar Gods to "take a number"
he took one
somebody with a bull horn announced:
"84 please step forward"
Kenny looked down
he was holding 742
that was OK-he was determined-he would wait
minutes later, a short, fat guy,
with a Mohawk approached
"Hey, I can’t stick around
you wanna’ buy my number?"
"what do ya’ got?
"99
"how much you want?"
"25 bucks"
"I only got 20"
"sold"
the guy took Kenny’s money
slipped him the ticket
disappeared into the crowd
when the bull horn barked "99"
Kenny and a Kurt Cobain look-alike,
with a Japanese copy, Fender Strat,
both stepped forward
"two 99’s? that can’t be" said the Devil
he looked hard at each ticket-then turned to Kenny
"you idiot, this is 66
your number has already been called
get moving"
Kenny fell to his knees
"cut me some slack" he begged
"I’ve been ripped off
just give me 60 seconds
let me show you what I can do"
Satan rolled his eyes-he had heard it before
Hell was already overcrowded
"OK, 1 minute and then your out of here"
Kenny scrambled for the Gibson
he had been practicing hard-his chops were up
he felt good-his fingers flying across the fret-board
16 bars into Van Halen’s "Hot for Teacher"
he heard something snap
trying not to stop, he quickly realized
the D and G strings were broken
The Devil started to laugh
"How can I be expected to negotiate
with someone who has so little to offer,
and so little to lose?"
Kenny was devastated
"but I just put new strings on this morning"
Satan wasn’t listening
turning to the fake Cobain/Stratocaster guy
the Prince of Darkness, took a deep breath,
and said "NEXT!"
In a perfect world,
The 4 faces chiseled in Mt. Rushmore
would be Johnny, Kris, Waylon, and Willie,
OJ Simpson would be stamping out vanity plates
alongside the Unabomber in San Quentin
every wanna-be Doctor, Priest, and Lawyer, would be
made to watch Paul Newman in "The Verdict" at least 50 times
and a public school education would include mining the mother lode
of irony found in the life and times of Muhammad Ali
In a perfect world,
the Government would find it unnecessary to spend 50 million bucks
trying to prove a president committed adultery and lied about it
the NRA would wither up and die due to lack of interest,
Its army of Lobbyists picked off one by one through random gunfire
all the camouflaged, soldier of misfortune, pin-headed, bubba-boys
would collectively decide themselves not smart enough to exercise the right to vote
and every child would know a deep and sustaining Love
from those in charge of their care
In a perfect world,
I could lay all day on the beach
soaking up Pacific Ocean Sun without burning my ass off
my 1970, Olds F-85, with the 396, would get better gas mileage the faster I drove it
something like 100 miles per gallon at 100 miles per hour
there would be fantastic, hole in the wall, Mexican food joints on every street corner
with plenty of fresh Tortillas, Habeneros, and ice cold Negra Modelo
and "Baby Doll" with the wandering eye would magically see George Clooney
every time she looked my way, causing her to re-think monogamy