Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

By | 24 September 2002

All a man needs, all a man ever really gets,
is one chance: the one good clean shot
at the royal cunt between the eyes, the spot

that can take a mind off getting in your way
and make an opponent an afterthought
on the road to sweet acquisition, power

you don't even think of stopping. Minutes
from the border between Big Government
and The Get Away, the car handles well,

the box of shells jumping about like corn
popping on the bucket seat. Reaching over,
I feel my choice weapon, a Derringer.

I could go into details, but you're a faggot
and wouldnt appreciate the design's sincerity.
The history behind this piece of craftsmanship,

one of America's true glories, reads like a Who's
Who of what's extinct, from Buffalo to LA.
By the time you read this, I'll either be shit

for worms, or getting a BJ from a Mex skank,
fingering her pucker, sucking on a Corona,
fully enjoying my ill-gotten bank anti-deposit.

Escape has that nice divergence to it, pure
as poetry: you either do or you don't, are Major
or Minor, or a flower that bloomed unthanked,

odds I'll throw for any day. Risk is the trade,
where all the best deals are actually made. Consider,
I could still be a security guard right this instant,

jut as surely as you sit there and eyeball words,
like any armchair lifer who never plays big time.
Fuck information highways and virtual reality,

all that CNN-Time hype that lulls us to desks.
I am not virtual or informative to anyone
right now, here at this gateway where life is good.

I'm happening, honey, like a rape or flood,
with my own inner mythology. I rise and take on
the fluidity and force of a wild god, what goes

with me goes, and what remains is golden gravy
for the little guy who got gigantic with big plans.
Wild Turkey beads my lips like spunk juice,

Marlboro's cancer agents rush down my throat,
as I snake Virginia smoke from movie-star nostrils.
Catch me before I cool: a celebrity in the forming,

like something a satellite might see lights billions
from here, a nebula bursting like a crab from a shell:
Edward Huntly Dade's the name, to be exact. Never

forget, just because I grew up in a trailer, doesn't mean
I think ketchup is a food group; I'm smart, is all.
I can see them up ahead, the vehicles tight like wagons

circled against a Navaho wave, the daylight of their beams
red in the dust and sun, igniting the tips of their carbines.
I'm in range. Not much left to say or do, but just the same,

it gut-catches, the national anthem before the World Series.
I'm not alarmed. I've got three great things going for me,
each one my Daddy's bequest: alcohol, tobacco and firearms.

This entry was posted in 11: COPYLEFT and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.