Blanket
Look at you now
a desperado in a desperate world
huddling under the blanket
of delusion.
The road you always thought would get smoother
is rockier than ever now,
the weather’s getting cold,
the coffee’s getting bitter
and whiskey’s getting precious.
The ducks at the lake are diseased now
and the lonesome stoners
homeless dudes under the bridge
welcome you now,
like they never did when you
were in the old days,
the made it days,
the hay days of hope
those bitter burgundy days
steal from you,
not like an armed man in a bank
with a pistol
on a desperate afternoon of last resort.
Bitter is the fruit
of hope that deserts
or is deserted.
Bitter is the wind that blows over
the once righteous cadaver
of the life that didn’t turn out as planned.
Fake righteousness,
fake certainty,
a fake clear day
that resolves into the foggiest
pea-souper
you’ve ever seen.
The real twilight zone,
the real unwelcome justice,
the real terrorist
hidden in the heart of the real thief.
I didn’t see I was doing it
but I was following you
down
when I didn’t know what real down
was in a world of illusions
and delusions,
distractions
and abstractions
that age sweeps away.
whether you’re twenty-five
or fifty-five
or even seventy-five,
they eventually blow away
on that puff of wind
that leaves you
like Napoleon
after Waterloo
watching the hope float away.
Knives and guns,
pills and potions,
ways and means that lack meaning
except as an escape
from
the despair that’s a blanket
that doesn’t keep you warm.
