Receding Truth River
the quality hotels got drunk and won't be accepting
any new takers until given time to sober up.
the storage room of reality is just way too full of
shit to easily make your way.
don't try scaling those deceptive mountains unless
you truly got some ambidextrous moves.
i wait for the light to show.
i wait for the pleading to die down.
take a walk with along the bank of receding truth river.
the takeout has a new family size box of lessons
we can eat.
have you decided the name of the bullet that will work its route
through you.
have you decided the name of the hole you will disappear in?
the gods are gnarly tonight.
the gods be a bit vicious.
they are, frankly, off their meds.
can you take it?
can you withstand the pressure?
smile...once more...for the camera.
there is always a camera somewhere.
smile for it as you bleed.
the gods are very drunk.
they want to lay down their law
but the speech gets stupid.
stupid speech, though, will see you through.
they're going on all around, wherever you crawl.
would you like to write a stupid speech for me to say?
would you like the gods to remember your name?
they are coming down now, armed, ready for the hunt.
we are just mortal stupid foolish men and women.
easy prey.
grinning dumb with pleasure.
---Scott Wannberg
Slugfest at Riptide
Ann Coulter and her all night gang
sisters of the wounded funny papers
claim they will now live in Bedford Stuyvesant
empathetic wolves slobbering along the everyone is suspect highway.
My right knee is paranoid.
Something about the way the light fractures.
Slugfest at Riptide is playing at the local intellectual movie
theater.
When they were filming it, they
asked my donkey if it could double for the lead.
My donkey was a lot nicer then.
I was going to take my donkey ice skating
I was going to make amends.
---Scott Wannberg
some kind of disease
call all the wars over.
go on. i dare you.
take command of the room, step up onto the table,
it doesn't matter anymore.
some kind of disease has built its house in
the brains of all us good people.
call all bullshit magic, write it up in a book,
get them eating out of your hand.
doesn't matter which one, does it?
all hands will suffice.
some kind of death rattle has become the Surgeon
General of our hearts.
call all hate ended.
go on. i double dare you.
take back the room, pull yourself up onto the diving board,
it doesn't mean anything anyway.
some kind of disease has had many children
and they are growing up in the bloodstream
of all us good people.
---Scott Wannberg
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