It was Saturday,
And you said God was with us.
So, we drove as fast as possible-
Into blistering orange and purple,
Into the death of the sun.
Because we knew he was, just as well as wasn’t.
There was sweat on your chest,
And on mine two black handprints of mud.
You called me your Apache warrior.
I made fierce stabs at sol, spears tipped with glass.
I did not kill the fire, only scared him away for a cycle.
In ecstasy you asked if I’d like some-
Fearful to step past my father’s drugs I shrugged you a no.
Sold you the same line from dreams before.
I don’t like being in heaven and hell at the same time.
To which you replied with hollow eyes to hell with heaven.
And together we cried ponds in the parking lot of Wal-Mart.
Beseeching the dams not hold,
Hoping we could wash it all clean.
It was Sunday,
And you said that god was dead-
We danced in the street, maniacs,
Exposed flesh and drumming war cries.
Busted open the fire hydrant and nursed,
Hysterical for love and peaceful tomorrows,
Crusaders of regrettable intentions.
And then your mother called and you had to run off to church.
During this fifth year you were enlightened.
Many people feel that upon reading a book or two.
Labeled me wrong, you of course playing the protagonist -
I didn’t see it that way.
I wasn’t keeping any type of score.
Still bear chested, scowling at king sun,
Howling to mother moon, dressed in pale luminous silk,
Knowing she would never howl back.
With duly noted precautionary tales in mind I set forth-
To coastal plains lush with life,
Trees hiding the cityscape.
Stars sending light at a glacial pace,
Eroding corneal muck.
You had left three sheets to the wind,
And I was inside my own mind without.
Skies bled crimson heat,
Leached from me that passion that once held steadfast
And it was pleasant at best.
But, I am no martyr.
Revitalized in my own indulgences,
Slept till Saturday when you returned-
The world making right again.