"the heavy king"
after a long lunch by jake kilroy.

with too much history, not enough money,
and no excuses, a man finally considered l.a.
it had been in his nerves the whole time,
mugging classical music,
caroling street graffiti,
making waste of youth.
the city cracked sharp teeth
and bled light to attract
the dreamers and the bingers,
offering a home away from home
when all they needed was a map and a blessing.

what good is the pulse
if it stumbles like a bent clock,
with hands flagging down anything that looks like a passing christ?
jesus, why did we retell all these stories
if they were only to mutate into idioms?
is that how it happens?
is that how we become patron saints of the afterlife?
yeah, yeah, carve up a grave in reincarnation bulk weight
so we can tell ourselves we'll avoid the madness
and kill the cancer next time.
surely these hands were constructed
by mother nature or lord supernatural
for more than holding prayer beads
and patting the backs of desperate local monks.

i was wild once!
i was the battering ram of night.
i was the only blanket in a lover's home.
i was clothes on the floor,
drugs in the system, blood unsure of source.
and now i'm the last king of land so barren
you couldn't plant a foot—
every merchant elsewhere,
all churches gone, nobody home but crows.
but here we are waiting to buy into anything that resembles the past.