Zen
Seagal
Just like your dreams,
Steven Seagal is Hard
to Kill. The
slower he fights
the more the villain's punches
land in empty space,
as though he's throwing them
from a different time zone,
or an older edit of the movie.
Always one step step ahead
by being one step behind,
Seagal slo-mo's through a world
perpetually in fast forward,
until the bad guy moves
so fast that our hero becomes
invisible to his speed,
and he cannot separate Seagal
from a rock or a tree;
then wonders why he feels
the kick he never sees coming.
One day Seagal will make
a movie where he stands still
and says nothing: with no one
to fight and nothing to lose,
the villain will despair
and fall down at his feet.
Why in such a hurry
to wipe out the world?
Seagal will ask him.
All you have to do is wait.
Blame Game
Bucket of vodka,
twelve red bulls
and a pack of pro-plus
raise the stakes but not
the game: no matter
how fast you spin
one day you’ll wake up here;
a bust piece of scrap
mainlining oil and blood,
all the plasma they can spare
to keep you out there
calling the shots
till the line goes flat
and your connection’s dead;
you’ll check out
never knowing if
you played your hand
or it played you,
either way you’re
out of here;
through with bottled
beers
and blow jobs.
It’s
not a matter of the good book
versus the bad look, Jesus grappling
with Lolita; just the uneasy reckoning
of how much you’re willing to lose
to get high: a long life sitting
like a waste basket
in the corner of the office
versus the shortfall pension
of flooding the tank
with a blindfold over your eyes
and telling yourself keep going.
Either way you’ll
crash out
where you knew you’d
ditch
all along. Every man’s
a brave coward, but every bed’s
a death bed. Every road
detours here behind the house
of ashes where you smoke
your last smoke,
but only the clouds are getting high.
Laughin’ Lenny
Leonard Cohen Live
Between ‘nearly dead’
and ‘not dead yet’
is a sliver of silence
thinner than a vinyl groove:
but here you must work
to prosper the IRS,
straightening your tie
and tilting your hat
once more from the top;
knowing there never is,
never was, such hallowed
turf.
All of the now you stake
a claim to
is here: the smile on your face
as they pronounce your
name
as though invoking an
old god,
believed long deceased.
Remixed by the asking,
the telling, the need
of the songs for someone
to sing them as they
themselves
would sing. Once more
from the top, old
friends.
Stop The Count
See this towel? I threw it in
years ago to spare myself
another beating; but the crowd
is still screaming and the cornerman
who’s watching my back
yells ‘attack, attack!’
as I back away from the barrage,
wondering how much more
my body can take before
it sinks to its knees
or I can throw myself down
and out, judging the crowd has
smelled enough blood
to offer mercy; hoping they won’t
look too closely as I climb from the ring
knowing the real fight
has barely begun; that the bell they ring
before they announce the verdict
is only calling out my next bout.
And every judge’s scorecard will agree
I lost to the better man.
A Small
Price
I don’t take it
to get high
I take it to feel alive
briefly one of you
instead of one
of me
someone who might
reach through
the mirror
and come out
the other side
feeling so alive
they’ll never want to
come back
–
until one day
I’ll be done with dying
the same way
I’m done with living
and I’ll find out
how you feel
when you launch a firework
from a high window
I can only fire
from the ground
–
find if death seems
a small price to pay
to finally be free
of the dreaming
Along
For The Ride
Who’s in charge here?
Not me; all I do is
ride the runaway horse
and heave on the reins
till he comes to a halt
and I can pretend
my pulling stopped him;
when the truth is he runs
where he wants to run,
and the best I can do
is coax and drag
till he gets bored and stamps
to a halt a few yards
from the cliff both of us
are tempted to plunge over
and lie motionless
on the shoreline; rocking horses
going nowhere fast.
Ian Mullins
