pith…

SUNDAY SERMON I

In these godless days of the year 2009, of which a quarter has already been gnawed away by the dredging samsara of day to day, week to week workhorse life and the lust for lifelessness swimming through glass after glass of liquid anesthetic and the drone of satiating conversation and howling guitars while The Blues seeps from morning pores like single-malt perfume and the leaden weight of another handful of crumpled beer cans and dollar bills in my back pocket keeps me holed up in the attic of my own reeling mind.

The Ides of March has slithered by with no trace and ill Irish luck only brings out the wrong kind of green-eyed girls who drink black beer and drool long winded lines of nothingness instead of telling fortunes and reading weathered palm lines with needled gypsy fingers the color of molasses.

Restless Sunday afternoon haze in my church where Jesus’ blood is oily haloed black coffee and his body burns down to a filter with a camel stamped on it, ah’ men. 

John Dick