what the pagan woman told me

"You might as well take that Pentagram off. You claim it's protection but how much has your life really changed since you put it on? We both know you forgot what you were looking for a long time ago and don't plan on finding it. You have to love yourself for that."




they call it gigo
garbage in, garbage out.
I was too busy stuffing my karmic balance
into plastic trash bags to pray this year.
the past twenty years actually.

seven generations of fuck ups hung me out for whiplash
and I relished in the masochism.
blame is my drug of choice
but that's not what the Vikings built my ancestry from
even though I'm still drinking off the prison keg
my father left behind some time ago.

I'm not coming back when I find my highway
'cause there's too many couches
lined with my writers indention here.
you can only leave so many tampons in a bathroom
before it starts to feel like home
and I was never one to love enough.

I know a man who could give Jack a hangover.
he's a proud man that watches the sun cry
when he thinks nobody's looking.
I'd touch his face if that five o' clock shadow
could save me but neither of us are ready to leave the bar.
cigarettes just don't taste the same without traces of insomnia
and I'd sleep easy if he bought me a drink.
I'm too proud for that.

southerners shoot it straight and alone to twist the gravel path
we have faith getting lost on
and I've learned not to regret the amethyst affection
I paint for the world around me on empty box cartons.
yesterdays rust would only provide diesel for the backalley noose
that already has enough whores fighting for first dibs on a kickstart zippo.