blue collar, white heat
She told me that “If I didn’t
know you personally, I would
never approach you…you’re very blue
collar and always have a sneer on your face.”
Well baby, I wear that persona like
a battle scar…never wanting to
wear my poetic side on my sleeve.
Ronnie Van Zant once told me
that all the pencil-pushers better
get out of his way.
I took that to heart and never allowed
phoniness to creep into my grill.
Abilities should always speak for
themselves, if the personality is bigger
than the talent—than it’s time to try
a new game with a another set of rules.
I do not carry bullets out the door, or drive
a steak through the heart of malcontents
Who call themselves disillusioned.
And people more talented than I sang songs
about hiding behind blue eyes and asking
if anybody’s in there.
Uh, uh…There’s a true challenge inside my
being that exposes itself everyday. But I will
not let it fuck with me because I have a
right to survive.
It is then I walk out the doorway and
spit on the sidewalk to remind myself
who I really am…
witnessing a man dying who wants to live
To watch a man dying that
wants to live.
You look inside yourself and feel ashamed
and embarrassed of your own pain.
To see him struggle to say a word.
To see his face grimace with pain in some hospice, where the scent of death lingers in each saddened room.
This is the end of the spree.
A later eulogy.
A tear left in some alleyway.
The night steers its course.