Three Bucks Out of Luck

Three Bucks Out of Luck
JCD Kerwin

I met God the other day,
on a Tuesday afternoon.
He was smoking French cigarettes
and drinking black coffee.
“What this meeting all about?”
I asked and sipped my own
liquefied Arabica beans.
“You’re right; you’re all damn fucked,
just like you thought you were.”
And then he laughed and put a pair of Oakleys
over two different colored eyes.
I watched him raise a pigeon from the dead
as he passed on down the sidewalk.
Once roadkill of taxis that didn’t give a damn,
now it bobbed and waddled in the muck
of our humanity.
“We’re all just fucked anyway.”
I played with the spoon on my saucer
and watched coffee droplets turn into constellations.
The Milky Way is only a figment of our imaginations—
Andromeda is one of a thousand daytrips we can take
anytime we’d like.
I tip the mug and watch the coffee pour.
I leave without paying because I know it doesn’t matter.
Three bucks and a dime aren’t worth a damn
when we’re all just fucked anyway.

June 2015

Bayoneting Sustenance

This is non-fiction, fiction.
…Figure that one out.

Bayoneting Sustenance
JCD Kerwin

I stay up all night,
watching the History Channel tell me about
all the presidents and what made them
(or didn’t make them)
a great leader.
It’s a marathon,
a marathon of watching me
grow more apathetic with every
click of the goddmaned
ticking machine.

(I hate that clock…
I guess I don’t care—
enough to get rid of the clock,
I mean…)

I live off coffee and cigarettes
like some teenage model with
anorexia.
But I’m content,
to thin, and
sink farther into upholstery.
Maybe by the time I emerge
as a tattered little butterfly,
the world will be long-gone.

Maybe I’ll find an unused stick
of cancer
buried in these cushions.
Worth a shot.

Or two.

(Sept. 2014)

Desert Sun in the Winter

Red the West
JCD Kerwin

I like to talk to cowboys in bars,
wondering where they’ve been and
what kind of dust their boots
have turned up.

I think maybe the twinkle in their eye is
a reflection of the kind of life
I dreamed of when
I was too young to realize
my rocking horse would never
take me to Texas.

Blues escapes their lips
like cigarette smoke and
I hear the twang of
sweet Carolina lullabies
when they sigh.

I smell the perfume of
the girl they left behind
when
they throw their coat across the stool
and stare,
waiting for the past to disappear
for one last time.

I talk to cowboys in bars because
I never saw the West except
in picture books and
watercolor paintings of
some blood-orange, desert sky.

I bet they see
a thousand, brilliant stars
when they close their eyes.
I bet they wish
to ride all night
beneath an indigo-colored sky…

[I’d like to be a cowboy
and ride all night until
I can’t remember
myself or here
at all.]

Dec. 2012

The Creature from the Black—Just Kidding.

Blacklagoonadoom
JCD Kerwin

Sometimes I stay awake;
I stay awake staring at the wall—
staying, staring, waiting
for the other me to take my head
and pull me into concrete,
paint and fiberboard, and
take over so I don’t have to
pretend that I’m okay looking at sunspots
on my winter skin, hoping that
the summer sun will come
and turn it to the darker shade
that I like better.

But it never comes;
no face explodes, screaming from white walls.
I just turn into an insomniac
and start to smoke my fingers because
I forgot I never bought a pack
of cigarettes.
And my eyes start to sink and I start to wish
I never was born at all;
it’d sure be easier than
pretending I knew
what the hell I was
really supposed to do.

Dec, 2011