You, God and The Weatherman

My hands are no longer steady.

My pistols sit in decorative cases,

long unused.

There was a time

that we would roam far and wide,

beyond the confines of our eyesight,

but now the night

brings only hunger and regret.

 

My old Ford would make the trip

through the country,

into the city

and I would spend fistfuls

of Uncle Sam’s money on you.

Only the best for my Baby.

 

Dinner at the uptown, haughty rooms,

with names like, “The Gilded Edge”,

or, “The Topaz Lounge”.

Drinking fine gin

and having a good laugh at the straight folks.

Sneaking in close for a kiss,

I’d run my hand up your thigh

and feel that little .25 Automatic,

tucked snugly into that Italian leather holster;

it’s metal frame warm from your body.

It made me so hard.

 

The night might end in sweat and bliss,

under the stars of the desert.

The back of the old Ford was our Camelot.

You my Guinevere and I your Lancelot,

because I could never be king.

 

There were times I felt like one, though.

The things we did for money;

lots of money.

Heck, it’d curl your toes to tell you,

but I won’t.

I can keep a secret.

 

Time.

I seem to be losing my grip on time,

like I lost my grip on you.

Lost in the snare

of that goddamn Methadone Jesus;

I couldn’t wake you up.

I just held you and cried.

I tried to eat my .45,

but you’d have been some pissed,

so I didn’t.

I just yelled and screamed;

at you,

at God

and the weatherman.

Damn fool is sayin’ it’s a 25% chance of rain,

but it’s already comin’ down

and I can hear the thunder roll.

 

Yeah,

time don’t hold fast like it used to.

Sometimes I’m now,

sometimes I’m then.

I’m pretty sure there’s some times

I’m nowhere at all,

but I never forget.

 

You never forget

the first girl you loved,

or the first man you killed

and I’ve got my fair share

of broads and dead bodies

to accompany me to the afterlife.

 

You Babe,

I almost want to just leave you out of it,

but I can’t stop remembering you.

Like a veil of your fine lace negligee

gets draped over my eyes

and I can feel your hands all over me.

Your sweet breath on my neck

and the heat of us.

Fiery infernos in the cold desert night,

bright enough to beat back the stars.

 

Then that fine veil

glides down snakily

around my neck

and I’m fighting that old bastard again.

He’s bigger and stronger

and he’s squeezing the life from me,

but my boot knife finds his liver

and about a dozen other places.

Soaked in sweat and blood,

I disappear into the night with the money.

It would buy my first Ford…

 

Ah shit, I can’t keep it together.

Memories come apart,

like wet asswipe

when you touch ’em.

It’d drive a man to drink,

if I could remember what I was trying to forget.

 

Oh Darlin’,

I’m gonna sleep now.

Maybe I’ll have that dream again,

the one where we went to California;

that one’s nice.

 

I tell ya, Babe;

once the mind starts to go,

you’re sure glad ghosts exist.

See you later.

I love you.

 

HG – 2016

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2 thoughts on “You, God and The Weatherman

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