Predications of a felon
not far off from the thoughts of a dying man
In the mind of every outlaw there's
the hope for redemption
the hope for the opportunity
the chance to wipe the blood from their reckless youth
and finally have a reason to be kind to themselves
After the years on the road
years incarcerated
years in love, years with
different women years
with none
After I have wronged and been wrong
hurt and been hurt
maim and been maimed
after I have done all this I finally found
out what the old folks were talking about
Or what my mom meant when that old Led Zepplin song came on...
the one my mother would quote lyrics from
(it was how we all knew that she was on a sick one, she'd
hit the glass dick and begin all sorts of obscene pageantry)
I look like shit in the mirror. It's been days..
days... since I was kind to myself
Sweat pours off my face in torrents
my hair smells like an ashtray
there's blood everywhere from dropping a bottle of tequila at
the airport and trying to dispose of the remains before the security line. oh.
God.
I feel motherfuckin' awful as I wretch across the bathroom floor
like some cliché' anti drug commercial
as the chemicals and the spirits that bind them leave my
empty shell behind
ma used to quote that overplayed zep song
"To be a rock and not to roll"
hah. Sure ma.
"we oughta give you a ted talk" I say
to nobody in particular
I think one of my organs are failing
The days seem to blow on forever... like an endless hot summer
scores of long nights...
I try to sleep as the birds begin their morning service
too much coke
too much extra room in my nerve endings
I think about all the nonsense I always think about
except now I can finally see the great indifferent
nothingness of conscious understanding and the
lack of it, as well
"Just resting" I mutter to myself.
"trying to rock, ya know?"
I hear nothing
as time rolls on
The Night Watch 