St. Peter

as the crow disappears into the black
as we walk drunk and pointless down the back alleys of cap hill
as we kiss the neon signs of this western town with whiskey breath
where are we really?

our names etched in no one’s skin
no street signs for us
no great buildings for us
no park bench

where are we really?

did we escape the cold confines of america
to find nothing for us on the fringes?

did we die
to be reborn in the image of our bad karma?

am i the resonating waves of my ancestors?

these questions are too much
as i fall into a warm coma
and fall in love
with the girl behind the piano
in a bar where you can still smell
the booze in the freight elevator

a city for the drunks
a grid system to keep them walking alright
chess pieces
queen annes and pawn shops

and us breaking glass down back alleys
if you’re always drunk, are you sober by right?
and us lost in the stabshoe inbetweens

no money
no wallets no time
no distraction no pleasure
no pain no disenchantment or anger
no bombastic dream of revolution seen to manifestation

the crow disappears into the black
another poet fingerpainting death
another poet fingerbanging their skull
chasing airplanes on foot
swimming through brick walls
drowning in empty bottles
counting time in ounces
playing yesterday’s lottery
renting rooms in ghost towns
watching television with the power off

leaving the back door open for the murderer
that couldn’t be bothered to come

and st. peter
smug as fuck
looking you in your dead eyes and asking
was it worth it?