This poem may not be received well by those who think
their way is the only way. I just broke wind. It stinks.
Imagine, folks, back in the day when Pilate spoke for Rome
a barefoot carpenter and friends out on a fateful roam.
Peter and the two young sons of ancient Zebedee
and Jesus came upon the Garden of Gethsemane.
The evening wind was calm and still but Jesus couldn’t sleep
and three times found his closest friends laying with the sheep.
Eventually he kicked the men and said, “Get up. Stand up.
Here’s comes my betrayer. Does anyone want this cup?”
No one laughed. In fact they gasped, but Jesus only winked.
“I’m only kidding. Don’t be bitches. Damn, Peter. You stink.
I think you laid in sheep shit, bruh.” When Peter sniffed his cloak
the brothers had to bite their lips to not laugh at the joke.
“Rise up and let us go,” he groaned. “Here’s comes that asshole, Judas.
I told you he’d show up tonight. Let’s go ahead and do this.”
Then Jesus sighed and faked a smile as Judas stumbled up
reeking strongly of self-loathing and ancient red rot gut.
Stop. Let me ask one simple thing: Do you folks really think
Jesus didn’t have some ears inside the stinky-stink?
Of course he knew that Judas would betray him on that night.
‘Cause Jesus? Forget what you know. That dude was out of sight.
A brilliant mind, sharp as a tack he set a plan in place
that carried on throughout the years to help the human race.
Here’s how it goes, not from the book the righteous love to preach
– a history tome, ripe with wisdom from dead men who still teach
us, we here in the modern world. It’s time for birds to tweet
about the truth of Jesus Christ and golden bells that speak.
They say Satan was in Judas, but what’s that even mean?
We’re all our own worst enemy. We’re Satan, it would seem.
That is, if we allow ourselves to be the kind of thing
that only lusts for wicked things, like Judas and his bling.
Thirty little silver coins that is what it took
for a decent, honest, moral man to get got by a Crook.
We’ll now have a short interlude. I’d just like to thank you
for getting so far down you’ll see the part called Saga Two.
Uh … about that.
It’s yet to be written. Sorry. It’s five in the morning.
This is what I do, ok? I write and write and write and…
Wait, the wind is blowing … swirling around me. Oh Captain!
My Captain! My Commander in Chief. Oh say can you see?
The wind has died down now. The weather is calm. It’s nice out.
I know I just broke from the rhyme pattern. Once more, my bad.
Problem is, I wrote the first part of this poem back in
February, back when I was still locked in my prison.
Obviously I had not the verbal capacity
at that point to see how lines create umbrellas of words
when you let go and enjoy the ride. Think of Lose Yourself,
that song by Eminem. God, I remember when that song came out.
I was down in Waco, Texas, working for the Navy.
I was terrible at my job back then. Imagine me
on a ladder staring into the engine of the plane
you’re about to fly. “Holy shit, abort! Abort! Mayday!
Ground the plane! The idiot is in the engine again!”
Clearly I wasn’t right for that job. I couldn’t do it.
It was just something I had to do to get to where I
am now. I apologize for being such a fuck up,
but I think I’ve finally found a niche. It’s writing, right?
This bullshit poetry thing that I do? Help me help us.
If I can get out of here, and actually make some money
I can take all of my friends with me. All of you. You too,
Judas, whoever you happen to be in this moment.
Because that bad energy? It can be in any one
of us. I’m no better than you. I’m not Jesus. Perish
the thought. I’m just a dude who loves music and movies
and books and drugs. Wait, what? Drugs? Like what? Like cocaine? Like meth?
Like pills? Like L.S.D.? Like lust? Like money? Like power?
Like nicotine? Caffeine? Dopamine? Addiction, it seems
is less about about the thing and more about your brain. Right? Right.
What’s that verse on that tombstone out by the O.K. Corral?
“Here lies Les Moore. Four slugs from a 44. No Les no
more.” That’s what it’s about. More. The disease of wanting more.
I have eleventy-billion dollars. I want one more.
I own 3 sail boats and 35 Lamborghinis. Ack!
Better make it 4 and 36. It must have one more.
It’s like pulling hair. One more rip. One more root. One more crunch.
Hey Shawna Salmons and Kyle Dynes: let’s have lunch sometime
and talk about all the awful shit we said and did to each
other back in the day. Don’t worry, Kyle, I’m not gay.
I dig the ladies, man. Jennifer Love Hewitt and Anne
Hathaway … wow, right? Take me away to Disneyland and Space
Mountain. Let’s ride roller coasters and run around the park
like Clark Griswold and his family on their first Vacation.
One big happy family? No. Did you see that movie?
Clark killed Aunt Edna’s dog, made his son Rusty stab his brain,
time-warped Audrey into her first menstruation. And Christie
Brinkley? Dude … that was Billy Joel’s wife! “Bottle of red?
Bottle of white? It all depends upon your appetite.”
Are you Axel Rose or Slash? Kurt Cobain hated Axel.
So? They both had a purpose, didn’t they? Was one better
than the other? Lounge Act or Paradise City? Hell, man…
can we play both? Can we all work together and make this
place better? Think of the last month or
so. You’ve been having fun with your friends and family, right?
Isn’t that the point of life? To go outside and live it?
If you think I’m an asshole or whatever, that’s cool, man.
It’s not personal. It’s business. This is my mission.
Ground control to Major Tom? Bowie’s in the Labyrinth
with Jennifer Connely. Is she married? What about
Wynona Ryder? She’s from Minnesota, right? The North
Country? I know another girl who’s from that area.
Her name echoes when I shout to the rafters and the sky
We fight ’em fair boys. We fight ’em square. Here come the falcons.
No need to beware. Just be prepared, like a young lion
staring at the sky after a semi-serious head
injury, at the hands of an old shaman-like baboon
named Rafiki. That guy was my favorite character.
Which one was yours? Scar? Timon? Pumba? Was it Mufasa?
Ohhh. Say it again. Mufasa! Ohhhh! And then what? Laughter.