Woke up hung over and started thinking about God again,
And how I wish I were Jesus
And you were the cross
So that I could just mount you
And then die there.
I knew itíd be one of those days when a brain is an ashtray
And my thoughts kept slipping back to the 8th Avenue underpass
Where I thought I would probably die, hell I knew it,
Because we were rocking the downhill,
Riding double to the bicycle in a blind rain
And your big ass was on the brake-handles anyway.
I thought about why I hate to drive cars
And how writing about this will be easier much later
When the college town is a memory, fond with an asterisk,
And the inspirations for my tropes and origin myths
Arenít so proximal or obvious as now.
I could spend the rest of my life mumbling Wittgenstein catechisms,
Diagramming new ways to build words and break them,
How language is the this of that or the other;
Drink toasts to forget why I refuse to forget anything.
Wishing is the luxury of the slowly waking body.
Once aware, I knew that I was mortal, not The Martyr, not even a Christian.
Reviewing this poem for grammar, I know I donít mean it
One way or the other, or any other.
Each line is dealt like a playing card and
Ace of Hearts always carries the hand.
Fuck it, I decided, it was like talking about God or drinking too much
(Or not telling you how badly Iíd wanted off that fucking bicycle).
You say there were reasons and there were reasons, but really there werenít;
No, not really any at all.
Iíd done it all because in each moment
it had felt like this is all right
And whosoever whenever should cast the first whatever I just say
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