Maiden Of Mercy – a sailor’s tale

Here, where highlighted, the troubles we met,

Long ago, on a ship, far at sea,

Sights that we saw, I’ll never forget,

Comrades, our captain and me.

Winds that grew howling as high as our ship,

Plumbing the depths of our fears,

Submerging the bravest, resisting prayer lips,

Drowning the best of our tears.

Drenched, we stood stalwart, shackled to posts,

To masts, to each other, comrades,

Afeared of the moment all lives would be lost,

No aid despite mayday relayed.

How to fight gods too intent on destruct,

Neptune unleashed, three tined strong,

Maritime fellows, down on their luck,

Awondering how they had done wrong.

Dimmed came the voice on the surge of first wave,

Agrowing as storm mustered force,

All hope relinquished, none left to save,

Shared thought as we fought to keep course.

No hope was left in purser’s aplomb,

All stores to sea bottom had fled,

Blessed we ourselves, each other and home,

Destined for our final bed,

When out from the waves, against father’s rage,

Came the daughter of merman with cause,

Voice of an angel, persuaded, assuaged,

Pled, melody saw storm pause.

A hush on the wind, the ebb and the flow,

Two voices, for mercy, justice,

Abated, we waited, storm clouds still in tow

Then sound of salvation, a kiss.

Whatever she said we might never know,

Best guess is she loved one, she loved all,

No stoppage to find out, we started to row,

Relieved enraged storm was mere squall.

Here, where highlighted, the troubles we met,

Long ago, on a ship, far at sea,

Captain and comrades might still be lost yet

If not for mermaid who loved me.

Still her voice carries, I carry it close

In water and waves, on sea breeze,

Together we both, but for storm that arose,

God judged but heard daughter’s pleas.

Maiden of mercy saw one, she saw all,

Lifted refrain to save love,

Thankful our passage to angelic peace call,

Thanked we, blessed north star above.

 

Masked And Dangerous

Right, having another bash at the mask shenanigans. While sitting in sunshine is far removed from the following it seems helpful in mashing the brain a bit.

Onwards by carriage, in cabin alone, pulled

by four horses, unknown maiden was borne,

masked and unseen, so she thought, as she rode,

unheeding of eyes trained on traversed road.

Forested hideout masked predator there,

man of some mystery, hidden in lair,

lying in wait for rich treasure to claim,

stand and deliver, his call, with no name.

Rode he to hounds in the day but by night,

donned cloak and pistol, visage kept from sight,

surprising all journeys along forest path, 

tonight, no exception, ever ready to grasp

bejewelled and bedazzled from carriages fine,

heard wheels approaching, areckoned apt time.

Midnight it was as he forced to a stop

carriage before him, at last strike of bell clock,

beckoned insider to part with her gems,

waved pistol wildly, guarantee of amens,

when out from the carriage, from cabin enclosed,

stepped lady lightly, more pale than white rose

with lips of rich red, aplumped they of blood,

sparkled of eyes where ruby did flood,

dazzling more brightly than riches he sought,

intentions unravelled, his plan came to naught.

Caught on the highway, predation to prey,

bit down she first then robbed as he swayed,

devoided of treasure, blood soaked, fell to ground,

while black plumed, her stallions, urged homeward bound,

back to her layer, her coffin in keep,

castle of masks, batted eyes, six feet deep.

Tattooed the hooves, same to face from her bust

suffused now with pigment of redded blood lust.

Beware the highway, deliver if asked

though man, masked for moment, lies dead to the task

erred in the path of the woman he chose,

asleep till tomorrow, masked once more as pale rose.

Nope, so no romance here either, per se. Right, this is getting beyond the pale, so to speak. I can’t write a love poem around masks? What gives? Masked encounters bring out the deadly in me? Who knows. But this was fun. I think I may have cackled at the end. Sitting in the sunshine cackling.

Maybe third time will be the charm. I’m not giving in. In fact, I’m really enjoying finding out where masks take me. Masks are fun. Like acting. Only better. No stage fright.

Seriously (or not so seriously!) link in in comments so I can enjoy your masked adventures. Mark has sent in one that I’ll post to this here blog after I’ve stopped writing today. Umm, might be late, Mark. 😉

Baboons in Credit Recovery – a short story by John Ian Bush

I want to point out that I’m writing this while I’m sitting in a classroom full of a bunch of thuggish baboons who think I’m a chubby fool who blabs about music and my guitar all the time. I’m in credit recovery. If you don’t know what that is, you’re probably not a lazy ass like me. Actually, I’m not all that lazy, I just can’t hardly focus on anything. I’ll pay for it later in life, I know that, but I can’t do a damn thing to change it, and that’s what’s sad about me. Actually, I’m paying for it right now. Some of the baboons are looking back at me and laughing as I write this.

Anyways, credit recovery is for the kids that sit around all day in class and don’t do shit. We’re supposed to make up the work we didn’t do last year, but I’ve never turned in a damn thing. Partly because I lost my binder and a lot of my papers were in there, partly because the damn eye doctor hasn’t called my mom to pick up my glasses and I can’t see shit and partly because from time to time I get the idea to write down what I’m thinking about and when I get like that, I can’t stop or be bothered with anything else, which is what I’m doing now. I can’t explain why I do this. I can’t hardly explain any of the shit I do.

Anyways, nobody does any work in here. The others all just sit around and whisper and pass notes about bitches and weed and who has the best shoes in the class. I should point out that I don’t hate the baboons and they don’t hate me. We’re just different and I can’t respect them as people because they get all their opinions from rap lyrics. The only one I can respect is Darren. Darren’s alright.

Darren got me high yesterday after school and we hung out. He showed me these naked pictures he had on his phone of this girl we go to school with, he got with her the weekend before and she let him take the pictures.

I wish he hadn’t shown me. She was a good looking girl and I always thought she was respectable and nice, but now I saw her nipples and I can’t unseen them. She’s a pair of tits to me now and I wish she wasn’t.

I didn’t look at the pictures too good, though, because I started to think that the damn phone might steal my soul or something if I did and I might become a baboon too. I don’t know why I thought this, but I did. I was high, you have to remember.

I don’t want you to think Darren’s a bad guy or anything. Darren wasn’t showing me the pictures to be mean to her or anything, he just wanted to impress me is all. I could tell that’s what he wanted, but I don’t know why.

We ended up running around down town that afternoon, we were both high and I laughed at everything I saw until it hurt. It was good weed, I guess. I hadn’t smoked but once or twice before yesterday. My brother says pot makes you stupid, but he’s a puss about a lot of things. He won’t even take aspirin.

Anyways, Darren took me up to the top of this rusted fire escape near this big bank. He told me, and I quote, “The town looks real pretty up here. Like Paris or some shit.” He tried to sound all manly and tough, but you can’t sound tough when you say words like “Pretty” and “Paris”. He was always trying to sound tough and manly. That makes me sad for some reason. I don’t know why.

I told Darren about how my amp blew a tube and about how I had to replace it and all because it makes all my songs sound like shit. I knew he didn’t know what a tube was or what the hell I was even talking about, but he still nodded politely and said, “Damn, that’s some shit.”

I told him that I tried hard to start up talks with him and the other guys in credit recovery, but I knew that I didn’t fit in and I knew they knew I didn’t.

He told me I ought to be proud that I don’t fit in with them and I ought to keep it that way. Then he said, “I ought to delete those pictures. That’s sort of fucked up how I showed you them.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It does look nice up here. It looks real pretty. You were right.”

 

Pawning a Record Player in Bitter December – a short story by John Ian Bush

 

There’s nothing good about Christmas for me now because I’m fifteen and I’m too damn old to give two shits about all those lights, and I stopped believing in Santa when I was three, and they never give us snow days anymore, so all of winter is a cold bitter waste to me now. I become bitter in November, right after Thanksgiving, and I stay that way until spring.

I’m bitter writing this. I don’t know why, but when I’m bitter or bored, I like to write. When I’m writing and I’m bitter, I like to write about all the things that I’m bitter over. To start with, I’m bitter because my mom keeps forgetting to pick up my anti-depressants. I’ve been off the damn things a week and I hate everything and everybody, besides a small group which I can count on one hand, practically, and honestly I want to die sometimes. Secondly I’m bitter because when I started for the pawn shop this morning, when I stepped off the porch and on my front lawn, my foot landed right in a pile of dog shit. I was really bitter about the dog shit, let me tell you. I was so bitter, as a matter of fact, that I didn’t want to miss a chance to bitch about it, so I never wiped it off, I just kept on down the street and cussed about it under my breath in my yellow-bellied way.

I was going to the pawn shop to pawn the record player my brother got me for my birthday last year. The thing was as old as dirt, but that’s fine because I love old things. I loved that player to death, but I needed the money.

The reason I needed money was because my niece is turning two next week, her birthday’s two days after mine, and I wanted to buy her her first cozy coupe. They’re a bitch to put together, but it would be worth it. I use to love my cozy coupe, and  I was her age when I got mine.

Anyways, there I was, dog shit caked on my shoe, I was walking in the freezing air, carrying that damn record player; the sky was gray, the clouds were hateful, almost as much as I was, and I hated everyone.

The guy at the pawn shop screwed me.

“Five bucks is the best I can do,” he said. He was as old as the record player.

I took the money, and I’ll hate that guy and I’ll hate that damn pawn shop for the rest of my life for it, I swear to God I will. I loved that record player and all I got was five bucks for it. Five dollars towards a cozy coupe that cost about

forty. I don’t know why I did it, probably because I’m a damn fool. Plus, when I’m around strangers I don’t think.

I’ll tell you something else I did that’ll prove what an idiot I am: after the pawn shop, I walked three miles to the super store the next town over. I don’t know why, I just felt like I had to, and besides, I had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, so I guess it didn’t matter where I went. But I still hate that I went and I’m bitter about that too.

It was six in the evening when I got to the store, the whole place was packed. I swear to Christ, I wish I hadn’t went and I still don’t know why I did. I hate crowds. I could smell the breath of every son of a bitch there.

I went to the back where the cozy coupes were put out on display, they cost thirty-nine bucks and some odd cents, plus tax. I saw the smiling faces of the kids on the boxes and I started crying and I ran out of that place, I swore to Christ then that I’d never go back there.

I ran out of breath near a church several blocks away from the store and I took a seat on a bench and finished up my crying. I need my anti-depressants.

 

 

Funeral Home Christmas Tree – a short story by John Ian Bush

It’s funny how people act in the coffee rooms at funeral homes. They’re all sad or they act sad out of respect. They all drink coffee and eat the cookies that they put out on the table, and they talk about how the body looks for a while, then they start talking about politics or the weather or some damn boring thing. It happens at every viewing I’ve ever been to. I even do it. I sat there the other night at my great aunts viewing and I nodded my head when people talked about how natural she looked and all that, and I ate three big cookie, then I looked down at my gut and was disgusted because I’m a damn glutton.

Anyways, two things happened when we all left the funeral home: the first thing was I offered to be a pallbearer. It was my great aunt Margret’s viewing, like I said, and my grandma said that me or my brother ought to be pallbearers. My brother’s real nervous about some things, one of them is being around dead people. He was afraid he’d drop the casket or something, so I offered to do it, but Margret’s niece said no. She told my grandma later that the reason she said no was because I looked like a clown because of my hair. I have long shaggy hair that I dye blood red.

The second thing is that I noticed the damn Christmas tree in the corner near the door in the lobby — it’s getting close to Christmas now. It was tall and green and decorated in bright

white lights and silver tinsel and big red bulbs with the names of all the dead people who were shown there that year written on them with permanent marker. I saw Margret’s name in the center.

I thought it was sort of strange, decorating the tree with the dead. I think that funeral homes are strange altogether. When you die everybody you ever met practically comes and cries and get all sad at the site of your leftover meat.

When I got back home I started over to my friend Darren’s house.

Darren and I have went to school together since fourth grade, but we just started hanging out this year because we’ve always ran with different crowds. His friends are the kind of guys that wear gym shorts all year long and lust after Air Jordans and Beats Headphones and try to punk out everybody so they can feel tough. Plus, we’ve never had any classes together or anything until this year, but Darren’s probably my favorite friend.

The only problem with us hanging out is that he smokes a lot of weed and he’s got me smoking a lot too. Last weekend we blew fifteen bucks on weed, smoked it all and stayed up until four listening to The Beatles.

He’s never listened to much music outside of rap, so I’ve been trying to show him some good stuff. He always acts like he likes it, but he’s probably just entertaining me. He’s probably just telling me he likes it because we’re friends and he’s nice. Darren’s a real nice sensitive guy under all that wanna-be-thug shit he’s always doing. He’s nicer than me in a lot of ways, like when he’s listening to rap and I don’t like it, I tell him and bitch until he turns it off, and when he turns it off, he isn’t even mad about having to doing it because he’s real considerate. I wish I was that considerate.

Anyways, Darren and I ended up going down to the cemetery and smoking a fat joint. I told him about the funeral home Christmas tree and he said that the funeral home was retarded.

“They won’t be putting my name on some damn bulb,” he said. Then he talked about the rapture through the rest of the cemetery. He told me that we weren’t going to have to worry about funerals because we weren’t really going to die because we were going up in the rapture. Darren was always talking about the rapture. He never went to church, but he had all the faith in the world that the rapture was going to happen at any minute and he had all the faith in the world that the two of us were going.

He told me once that I’m the only friend he likes to talk to about the rapture. It was probably because I’m the only one

who will even listen. I don’t believe in the Bible, but I don’t mind talking about Bible stuff if I care about the person doing most of the talking.

If Heaven exists, Darren will go because he’s nice and sensitive. If there’s a Heaven, Margret’s there because she was a real sweet lady. It’s a nice idea, the idea of Heaven, I mean. I guess I’d rather float up to a cloud kingdom than to get old and die and be buried in a boxes.

Anyways, I’m not sure why he thinks I’m going to Heaven.

Once we got out of the cemetery, we saw this old tin can in the middle of the street, and the street was empty because it was about nine at night or later and it was cold and everybody besides the two of us were inside around heater and wrap in blankets, probably. Anyways, we started kicking the can down this alley and we kept falling down and laughing because we were stoned.

We kept on kicking the can down the alleys until I had to piss. I went behind this old white shed, unbuttoned my pants and

unzipped and started pissing. There was this Oldsmobile behind me, it was parked on the other side of the alley, I thought it was empty because it was dark and I couldn’t see through the

windows. Well, somebody was in it, and halfway through my piss, whoever it was  beeped the horn and scared me half to death,

and I ended up pissing down my leg. I zipped up my pants and Darren and I got the hell out of the alley as fast as we could. It was funny, though. I didn’t even mind the piss on my leg that much.

They’re All Ants – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One

 

I’m watching them all from my parents’ bed room window, I think they’re all so sad. They’re all ants. They’re all ants besides Patches and me.

Patches is my dog. She about eighteen years old, her tits hang and drag on the ground, her face is eaten up by flees, but she’s still got enough in her to bark and chase every car that drives by our house. She’s a survivor, that’s why she isn’t an ant like everyone else.

I love Patches above everybody else because she’s the only one that recognizes my greatness.

I have a secret, I wish I was God.

I wish I could cast judgment over all the ants from a throne of sovereignty and holiness.

I wish all the people at school, all the sluts and big jockey pricks would have to look up at me on Judgment Day, after I lit the whole world ablaze, and beg me not to throw them into the pit. I’d throw them in anyways, though.

The only people who’d be safe is Patches and me, maybe my friends too, but they’d be my court jesters at best.

It’s no secret I have trouble in school, but that’s because the teachers are all fools and don’t understand me, and the ants they have me peered with are beneath me; I know they are, and one day they’ll all know it too, and when they do, Patches and I will laugh.

 

 

Part Two

 

It’s after school now, I’m standing in the crowd in front of the school waiting for my mom to pick me up. My jesters are standing around me with their foolish, unintelligent-looking faces, they’re blowing unintelligent words from their drool covered mouths. I don’t know why humans think they’re any less primitive than other animals. These people are nothing but knuckle dragging, dull-eyed, brain dead apes to me. Patches is much smarter than any of these idiots.

They don’t see my greatness. Fools.

I’m surrounded by foolish apes and filthy sluts. Every girl my age is either horribly unattractive or whores. Even the good looking girls that don’t seem like whores are whores secretly. Underneath their modest clothes and the shy bull shit masks they wear, they’re all whores, and they won’t even fuck me because they know I’m on to them.

Those sluts aren’t real women, they’re meat bags shaped like women.

I wish I didn’t have a sex drive, sex is ugly and beneath me.

 

 

Part Three

 

I’m walking Patches now on top of the levee. The sun’s going down and I’m happy watching her run.

I’m looking now over the river, and I’m facing it, I’m spreading my arms out as if I’m presenting the sunlight that’s reflecting off the water to the world: my gift to the ants.

Again, I wish I was God.

I wish I was God, and I wish an Atom bomb would drop over all of the world and leave only Patches and I to roam the leftover wasteland without the whores and big jockey pricks, and even without my jester friends.

I wish I was God and I wish it was only Patches and me.

Super Stores in America – a short story

 

Walking into the super store, I get the feeling that everybody wants to snap my neck.

Everybody hates everybody in super stores.

My mom’s going to the pharmacy to pick up our anti-depressants, my grandma’s going to get groceries, I’m heading to the CDs.

I rob this place blind of CDs.

I’m walking passed the posters now, I’m giving them a quick look over. Nothing but a bunch of boy bands. It’s their fault that I can’t get a woman. I don’t look like a half chick like they do, so I’m fucked.

But I feel a little bit bad for them, the boy bands, they’re nothing but salesmen in tight pants that are pushing sex on preteens.

It’s sort of pathetic, in five years they’ll be remembered as  jokes.

One thing I do like about super stores is that there’s half naked woman everywhere.

I’m glad that summer’s coming soon. Summer heat waves and sweat is God’s gift to horny teenage boys.

I’m a horny teenage boy, and I blame the media. I told my counselor that television’s turned me into an idiot, and it did.

There’s a woman in the lotion and candle section with four children. Her daughter’s at her side, her little boy is in front, staring at his feet, bored, she’s got a new born in a car seat in the bottom of the cart and a three or four year old in the little seat near the bars.

She’s sniffing each candle with her eyes closed. She’s in sweat pants and a bleach stained t-shirt, her hair is wiry and put back in a bun. She looks stressed. She looks like she really needed to sniff those candles.

Oh, God, I think she caught me staring.

I actually have a staring problem. I start staring and thinking about people and I sort of forget that they can see me.

I’m in the CDs now. I have “Dark Side of the Moon” against my balls.

That sexy red head is behind the counter in electronics. Who else can look sexy in those lame gray work pants? I’ve been checking her out since I was eleven. This place would lose it’s  magic for me if she stopped working here.

I’m going through the clothing section now. I’m bored. I remember when I was a kid, when I got bored in super stores, I’d hide in the middle of the clothing racks so I could jump out at people when they looked through them. That never got old.

I wish I could still do that.

Super stores were fun when I was a kid. I remember when I use to be able to run through the aisles without being thrown out by management.

I remember this one time I got one of the bikes from the bike rack and I rode around the whole store, no one said a damn thing.

Now I’m fifteen and expected to behave.

We live in a cruel world.

We live in a world where everyone wants to snap your neck.

Whore – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One

 

I’m willing to admit that my interest in Goldie isn’t healthy. I started watching her last summer when she moved in the house across the street. Before last summer I use to spend my nights watching this documentary show about life inside prisons, but she’s more interesting to me now.

She’s short, and I like short girls, and she’s got long golden blond hair, and I like that too. She’s always wearing really revealing clothes, though, and I hate that. I hate to think that other guys get to see that much of her.

The first summer I started watching her, she wore these really short jean shorts and tank tops that showed her stomach and hip bones. I like her stomach and her hip bones, and I’ve never thought about those parts on any other girl before.

I should mention that she’s a known whore, like a prostitute I mean. I don’t wake up during the summers anymore until one in the afternoon because I usually stay up until four or later to watch her bring her customers back and forth to her house from the train tracks, that’s where the whores normally set up shop here in town.

I watch her at night partly from jealousy, I hate every old bastard that gets to have her  while I sit in my room lusting after her and fantasizing in my underwear, and partly I do it to make sure none of those perverted old johns hurt her or try anything rough with her.

 

 

Part Two

 

I finally did it. See, I’ve been selling my ADHD meds to a dealer friend of mine down the street, he gives me thirty bucks for every bottle. I saved the money for six whole months so I could pay for a turn with Goldie.

I wanted to look good for it. I got my hair cut, I shaved, I trimmed, I went to the store and picked up the best smelling cologne I could find, and when I got back home, I picked some flowers from my mom’s rosebush in our back yard.

I went to her house after dinner, she answered the door dressed, but with wet hair and legs and feet. The first thing she asked me was if I was looking to have some fun, and I said I was and she waved me into the living room.

“Are you wearing perfume?” she asked.

I told her I was and I handed her the flowers.

“Sweet heart, this isn’t a date,” she said politely. “I cost a hundred.”

I handed her the money and she gently pushed me to her couch and kissed me. “You look familiar,” she said.

“I’ve been watching out for you,” I said.  “I live across the street and I’ve been watching out for you.”

“You’re sweet,” she said. She started undressing. She wasn’t wearing the short jean shorts of the summer before, but this little black skirt that barely covers her ass, and instead of tank tops, she was wearing a tight little t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear or a bra, but that was okay by me.

When she took off her shirt, the first thing I noticed was that she had a belly button ring.

“I’d like your stomach more without the piercing,” I said. “I’ve always liked your stomach.”

 

Confessions of Joel – a short story

Part One

 

I’m writing this in the second floor rest room stall at school. I sit in here every day for  most of six period because I have no idea what the hell’s going on in that class, my teacher doesn’t give a shit if I pass or not, which I won’t.

Note: I’m writing this of sound mind and body; this is my sincere confession of what I see as my sins and short comings.

Note: you may laugh at what you’re about to read, but, like I said, I’m trying to be sincere and get this shit expressed properly. I’m not too articulate, but I’m going to do my best:

I wrote out a list today in credit recovery, it’s a list of all the reasons I think I need to become a drafter or hang myself. I won’t bore you with the whole list, I’ll just give you the highlights:

One, I’m a dumbass academically, I spend basically all my class time staring at the window with my thumb up my ass. My teachers and classmates all think I’m a fool, and they’re pretty much right.

Two, I’m sixteen and I don’t know how I’m supposed to becoming a functioning member of society, and odds are I won’t find out by rotting in this stall for two more years.

Three, I’m failing history because I can’t stop staring at my teacher’s ass long enough to pay attention, I’m a horny animal and I lack sexual morals.

Four, I’m hopelessly addicted to marijuana.

Five, despite trying to be good and just soul, I always end up borrowing my mom’s phone at night to surf porn on the internet.

Six, and probably the saddest thing of all, yesterday in credit recovery, this big baboon that sits in the back named

Robert Horn shit his pants in the middle of class. Robert isn’t special or anything, he’s just a crude jack ass. Anyways, all the other baboons started pointing at him and laughing, and Robert laughed, and I joined in too. I laughed with those drooling, immature pricks.

No, I was one of those drooling, immature pricks.

     I was a Robert Horn.

I’m sixteen years old and I laughed at someone shitting their pants.

     Jesus.

How can I live the rest of my life knowing that?

How am I supposed to become an adult and live a just and respectable life when I remember that I shared a laugh with that fat fool.

I will walk the earth for the rest of my life with that baboon’s face in the back of my head, laughing in his soiled jeans, reminding me that we are the same.

 

Part Two

 

I’m sitting in my shed alone. I’m praying and waiting for God to tell me what I need to do and what I have in my life that I need to get rid of to get where I’m supposed to be, I’m waiting for a vision, or to at least for Him to tell me what I’m supposed to do with myself.

Note: I’m not praying to any certain God, I’m praying to whatever one is listening.

The reason I’m sitting her praying is the same reason everyone needs to pray: I’m praying because I don’t want to live a life that’s not about truth; the world’s full of shit and I want out, but every time I get a grip on something honest, I get horny and high or get caught up in something stupid on TV.

My situation is starting to look hopeless. I’m left with two options:

Option one, kill myself.

That would be poetic justice. I’d be a martyr. I’d be killing myself for my belief that living in a world of bull shit and people laughing at someone shitting their pants is worse than death — and it is, don’t be fooled.

Option two, I could go across America as a hobo and try to figure all this shit out, then come back, bearded and wise, and hopefully by then I will have finally heard from God and gotten my vision. But if I go with option two, I can’t come back until I know I’m not a Robert Horn.

 

Part Three

 

My friend Darren and I just bought a joint off a guy we know in Wayne Hills, now we’re running around by the highway smoking it.

I’ve been waiting on a vision from God all day.

He took too long, so I got high instead.

“I’m hungry ,” Darren just said, he’s pulling out a bunch of crinkled up one dollar bills from his pocket.

He’s leading me to a gas station now.

I want an ICEE. Cheery flavored. No, blueberry.

I want a pretzel.

I want a vision from God or a pretzel.

The guy at the register knows we’re stoned, I can tell.

This may be paranoia, I can’t be sure.

I see cheese its.

     Cheese its. I want cheese its.

     “Darren,” I just said, “cheese its.”

Darren’s not listening, he’s looking at the corn chips.

     Fuck corn chips. We should get Cheese its.

Darren’s at the register, he’s buying a bag of corn chips, a two litter and beef jerky.

Evil, dry beef jerky

Evil, salty, hot beef jerky.

“Man, fuck beef jerky,” I just said, I put the cheese its on the counter. “Cheese its, man.”

“I can’t get all this, mother fucker,” said Darren.

I put the cheese its back, but I’m not happy about it. I hate beef jerky.

We’re out by the pumps now, I smell the stink of gas.

“Darren,” I just said, “I just realized something. We’re too deep in the shit. We can’t get out, we’re in the shit too deep, we have to kill ourselves. God’s not sending a vision! We have to kill ourselves.” He isn’t listening, he just passed me the two liter. It’s Mt. Dew. I hate Mt. Dew. “Man,” I just said, “you should have gotten Cheese its.”

 

 

A Prayer to the Beautiful American God – a poem by John Ian Bush

Part One

 

I Pledge allegiance to the Capitalistic soul of America.

One system under Money, Greed, the Powerful few, the One Percent, the Endless and Soulless Banks and Laws and Lawyers and eloquently dressed Businessmen and the Boundless and Godless Bureaucracies.

One system under tax loop holes and Politicians with their pants ablaze and their fat hands in the metaphorical Corporate cookie jar.

One system that tells people to take what they can take by any means while they can take it and to Hell with anyone that doesn’t share their Bank account.

One system that tells you that Businesses are people too and perhaps one day they’ll be eligible for public office.

One system where citizen is slave.

One system that will suck you clean of Humanity and at Its core is Inhuman.

One system that promotes openly the metaphorical slitting of your fellow man’s throat.

One system that is destined and damned to one day slit its own throat from Its own weakness and craven or destined and damned to be beheaded by the rightfully furious Masses.

One system that tells you as a child that Money is the only true God and that Heaven can be bought, sold and traded in the form of stocks and real estate and flat screen television sets.         One system above the working class, the lower class, the working poor, the common bum, the food stamp recipients and the unemployed.

Because we are One Nation that’s still naive enough to believe that It’ll all work out after all and that communism and socialism are the true beasts of economics and that we’ll all be alright in the end.

Because we are One Nation that hasn’t realized yet that the dollar bill is nothing more than a recite to the shackles and the chains we all are guilty of working for and or accepting as evitable and necessary.

Because we are One Nation that walks around fearing the unisons and socialism and Obama care more than the Vampire tick of Big Business that is draining us all of our symbolic blood when we’re sleeping.

Because we are One Nation under a system that could and would downsize and outsource and step on all of us if it’ll save them a  buck.

Because we are One nation that’s working themselves to the grave without being offered a 4O1K.

One nation that’s under a system that doesn’t really give a damn about you, or the next guy, or the next, or the next, and, in fact, does not see any of us, for the Holy Dollar signs are blinding.

One nation that’s working themselves to the grave for dollars bills that will pass from our hands to another’s hand, then to another’s, then to another’s, but in the end, after all the hands it passes to and from, it will still be paper and soulless.

Because we are One Nation that hung Karl Marx and poor Friedrich metaphorically without a metaphorical trial or judge or jury.

One Nation that hasn’t realized yet that Money is the only way that the people above us have secured their place.

 

Part Two

 

Oh, I praise you, my Beautiful American God.

I worship your ten billion digital eyes.

I praise your iron veins and concert arteries.

I thank you for your bounty of red meat.

Bacon and steak. Bacon and steak.

Thank you for the white Jesus, the brown one scared me.

Thank you for hating the fags as much as I do.

Thank you for the capitalism that burns in the oven of my soul.

Oh, thank you for spreading your word through the saintly angels of Fox News.

I thank you for St. Rush Limbaugh, who protects us all for the blaspheming liberals.

Thank you for your minimum wage.

Please, don’t let them take my guns!

Please, my beautiful American God, deliver us from Obama and his fascist communist socialist liberal Marxist Islamic extremist agenda.

Deliver us from amnesty. Deliver us from affordable healthcare. Deliver us from social awareness. Deliver us from green energy. Deliver us from equality.

Please,

please,

please,

please, deliver us from critical thought, thinking gives me a headache.

Please, continue to fill our cups with the waters of your Holy plan trickledown economics.

Please, continue to fill us with the Spirit of the Holy Ghost of Propaganda and Fear.