"Goosepimples of Death," "The Shooting Never Stops," and "One Shot for the Record"

Goosepimples of Death

Take another look over your shoulder
at the great mushroom blooming in the sky,
like a thundercloud warped by jets,
or some kind of UFO rising
out of a hollow earth to devour
the back streets and back talk—
all that’s left of the meat eaters
and the monster trucks—

Going for glory ain’t as easy
as it used to be, back when
Evel Kneivel broke his bones
for you, thrilling your hides
with goosepimples of death
and another flash of stars
and stripes and chrome

Here it comes now, blowing
like a hopped up whore
so close to popping the big one,
like a politician fights
for pork on the stock market
floor; and where are the heroes
now, when the glass is broken?

Jumping the rails and heading
for the horizon with all the rest,
throwing down hope at the feet
of civilization; no winds of change
can repair straw houses,
or put the fire back in its bomb
when the plunger drops
from the lips of fools

The Shooting Never Stops

a leaky faucet sprays bullets
around the room like a handgun
aiming for nobody
but hitting everything;
everything all wet with blood
soaking the floors, rising up
and running out the windows
like a cry for help,
like smoke from a fire,
like a mind blown
by a world that can’t
seem to keep its shots
to itself

the walls are wet,
and the streets are wet;
not a dry eye in the house;
bullets in the sheet rock
and the brain pan, locked
up there where they can
do the thinking;
bullets have no brains
of their own, no connection
to the nervous system,
and their relationship
with the heart is like fire:
burning everything
and reaching
for destruction

One Shot for the Record

You never
forget the feel of a jockstrap
stretched across your ass.

They’re not going to kill
you, no matter how
much you beg.

Life’s not like playing a golf game.
Golf’s always the same thing,
every time. It’s just one shot
more or less.

You can grab all the horror you want,
or roll over and go back
to sleep.