Swapping Stories with the Showerhead

I took crucifixes off the shelves of the saints

and wore them around my neck,

catacombs also warn like red scarves in the snow.

Rock back and forth to keep the faith

that the earth still turns on its stomach,

24-7 bellyache in my opinion.

Oh my God, Oh my God

the house is on fire! The children are home!

The woman cries into the street,

the firefighters,

arrive on the scene,

only to find a pbs special of Jim Jones

and his kool aid transubstantiation.

The whores on bourbon street-

the same reincarnated Sabine Women,

the sphinxes of the Egyptians,

Mary Magdalene dies, again, alone and crying,

history can be unkind to those he does not understand.


It was early morning,

I left the Viper Room around 3 am,

possessed by the green fairy

I headed south as anyone in their left mind would do

to the corner where the sewer runs to the sea (rudely, and without apology).

I sat,

smoked a whiskey,

slurped down a cigarette

and headed home.

I swear she was awake

when I left her in the care of the piano,

to buy her a stiff cup of coffee,

and find her a cab

with a smiley disposition.


This lifestyle was disfiguring at best,

more time swapping stories with the shower head

than with the professors at the established universities,

the mercenaries for each new fad,

Gucci purses from snakeskin

psychological warfare and suicide bombers.


Times weren’t so bad,

every story has a sideline,

an excuse for profanity,

a fatal femme fatale flawed fall guy.

I’d give my right pocket of my favorite jeans

to sink back into my dreams

and go skinny dipping

for the pleasure of the howling moon.


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