recounting stories of the human race

shot your ass

point blank in the face

'cause you're a sucker

recounting stories of the human race

at least the part that believes in Heaven

rolling the dice

for the number seven

in a Salt Lake temple or baptist church

where snake worship

ends the search

for the holy divine.

you once where a friend of mine

but now eat ketchup with cold fries

while i run screaming from your lies

into the starry night with Vincent Van Gogh

into the cold baths he was made to undergo

in St. Remy, France

before he learned how to dance

the tango

with Brando

yes, that was then and this is now:

pastural drawings of a Guernsey cow

on the left chest of a merchant marine

and down his left arm is a coiled copperhead

biting each casual viewer with a sense of dread

but that was his intent

for all the fair-haired sweeties and conventional Joes

uncertain of which way America goes

while it's spinning.

his heavy handed breathing into the breach

guarantees no white whale harpooned on the beach

and that the ship has truly sunk:

no skeletons on the ocean floor

can open up the dead Captain's door

where an empty treasure chest

remains well hidden.

when Nashville jazz plays,

the sky becomes clear as the haze

lifts

the soaring brass horns

to the mountain tops

where the unicorns

get high,

each head filled with pure bliss,

leading to memory loss 

and a swinging miss.

calm and sitting like a lotus flower,

as hours pass and another hour

takes their place,

recounting stories of the human race,

i'm rereading the tales of brave Ulysses

written by James Joyce,

wondering where he walked

on the streets of Paris

and where he eventually stopped to eat,

to elevate his literary feet.