Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.
And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.
Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.
One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?
Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.
He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.
On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.
Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.
Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.
The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.
Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.
They are looking in the wrong world.
The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.
The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.
Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.
For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.