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the good old boys are shitfaced
and bitching 'cause I played
Wild Ride on the juke box over
and over and over the crack of
pool balls the crack of gunfire
kills Ralph Hipple outside the
Lantern Bar at 8:20pm, Thursday
but the good old boys don't rush
to the window 'cause they shootem
shotguns too but this wasn't a
shotgun t'was a thirty-eight dead
center in the heart. no blood.
no ambulance. no e.m.t. just
one good cop to scream at the crowd
to get the fuck away from the body
on the sidewalk courteously not bleeding
courtesy of a damn good shot that
stopped his heart but John who's shot
plenty elk, cat, bear, and knows dead
when it lays at his feet tries anyway
tries anything but this boy don't
breathe, don't live, and the only noise is
one cop in one spanky uniform
(still yelling), the squish-squish
when John pounds a cold-colder heart,
and a crack of balls as the g.o.b.'s
go back to their game. hell, the guy's
dead anyway and after eight minutes
this table will eat the cue ball
if you scratch
because Jesus died and because
had Mary been pregnant years later
a rabbit would have died too
rabbits are the symbol of Jesus
who died like a rabbit
(if rabbits died nailed on crosses)
because Mary's hypothetical rabbit died
then Jesus died
Stephen died stoned.
Easter eggs represent the stones
used to make Stephen dead as Saint Doornail
(but, once hidden, doornails are damned hard to find)
we decorate the eggs because
dying for what you believe in
is a festive event
the candy also represents Jesus
because it was sweet of him
to get nailed up there like a rabbit
the lambs are we the people
who rush like mastercard sheep
to buy eggs and grass for stoned Stephen,
chocolate bunnies for sweet Jesus,
and Eostre bonnets because
women look great in hats
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