St. Valentine’s Day Massacre Issue | ‘09 #1-2

Hell.
Not Bad.
Beer’s cold.
Something
you can’t say for Heaven.

No point here.
No illusions.
But plenty of laughs.
Not funny ha ha — schmuck slipped
on a banana peel — laughs –
NOOOOOOOO
more like the iridescence of truth:
We’re all gonna do our time,
all gonna die,
maybe come back
like good Bodhissatvas
to fuck up again.

Or
maybe
not?

I miss that better class of pussy
that first inspired me
to walk this walk
talk this talk
and do this do,
I really do.

And I’m not suppose to eat
chocolate
cavier
bar-b-que
opiated truffles
floating in butter from a duck
unless I discover an anecdote for cholesterol
mud wrestling King Kong.
And they say, they say
there’s no future in the future
so you can’t bet on the come
anymore; all time
for all time
is in the moment, they say — call it
Zen Neutral.

Take that to the table
and bet the locks
without the cream cheese;
there’s just no winning
though I concede
losing’s always been
a state of mind; here
the choices don’t even exist
even if the odds do.

BET ME I’ve been in worse places,
and probably will be again.
even if I never leave this spot.
As Futilitarian as it all seems
some days. . .the mind
moves through emptiness everywhere
while the eyes dance
with the sweet breeze
of hereafter; while other days
there are only memories
I try my best to forget
before the addiction of matter
over mind
kicks in
and I’m hooked again
on all those sweet-sweet badass lies
we told to each other: i love you,
i need you, i want you, i hate you,
i can’t live without you. . .
whoever the fuck you are. . .
or think you are, today.

When all is said and done
I wish you were here
but don’t think
that’ll ever happen again.
And I wouldn’t go back
and do it over
even if I could.
Though every once in-a-while
I’d like to visit.

I’ll always remember
you had a great ass,
and an even greater smile,
though most of the time
it was hard to tell
which was which.

- Mike Golden -