THE ONLY DIFFERENCE
The only difference between a winner and a loser
is that the winner cries out loud in crowds
that trample on his pain
and the loser weeps alone at home in his room
like a faucet without a drain.
Two drips of the same hurricane.
So why put these distinctions on like handcuffs
and spend your life looking for a pin
to jimmy them loose,
or run around in a panic
trying to make bail
by pleading with loansharks
not to bite through your cage as you drown?
You may know the truths of hell religiously well,
but are you as well versed
in the lies of heaven, or is it with you
that one turns into the other
so all the lies come true
and it’s all just a big mess of demonic stew
you keep stirred up with your tongue
to keep from burning on the bottom?
Or are you like most people
who spend more time looking for a guide
than they do at where they’re going,
who think the colour of their eyes tints what they see,
who paint their windowpanes to improve the view
and abide like first stones
in their righteous mansions of glass?
If the angels jump from heaven
so the demons can rise from hell,
you would do well to lie in your grave like a threshold
that knows the way in
and the way out
instead of trying to deport the dead back
to a native way of living.
If you were to ask me, and you haven’t,
so I’ll presume,
you need to take a good bath in a hot mirror
and wash that face off
you keep trying to renew
like a virgin on the moon
every time you start to seek the spiritual.
Clarity isn’t an enlightened target
you can paint on the ass of a baboon
and there are no line-ups and limousines
when the truth is screened like a lighthouse
in an empty theatre
and the sound of one hand clapping
is definitely not applause.
You can walk out of the darkness
like a shadow into a blaze of noon
while your mind streams the credits of the last dream
you’ve left behind you like a life,
or you can hang out like flypaper at midnight
and catch a few stars on the main drag
as if every constellation were the logo
of a mystical consumer brand
blinged out like a shrine
to pimp and pope its radiance.
Either way you cut it, the way I see it,
win or lose, up or down,
thorns, horns, haloes, cosmic eggs
or the full moon itself
in the begging bowl of your crown,
you’re still drinking cool aid in Jonestown.