Cruel Tool

11 03 2010

They’ll bury me with a ballpoint in my stoney heart. Like a lanky old literary racehorse fletched out from being doped and ridden like a carnal investment. Spread those cheeks, ole thang, and show me the pink. Crack your scuzzy canines on my ball bearings. It’s a race for everything you’ve got. This planet is like a proud woman raped. I feel her pain and her forebearance. I’ll do my sentence from capital to period. If I was Barabas making bond I’d praise Jesus and baptize the multitudes with my slinky wand. My prose is a rose with scarlet barbs. Damn my body for the miracle it is. I was hopeful as a young hippie but that’s before we knew the windows were down and the cancer had spread. Do you have Mormons crawling like lice over your family tree? It’s a service you’ll pay for with your Levis stretched tight as the genome. We live in a world of spyplanes and missionaries shot out of the sky for drug smugglers, inches from an Inquisition. It’s hard enough to follow the rules without having to make them too. If Christ and Torquemada were alive today who would have fans and who would have disciples? If I’m getting punchy it’s from pulling too many g’s often as I’ve looped the loop. They tossed 22 slugs at my wedding but you can bet I don’t have rice in my Uzi.




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