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Poems from Tom's new collection, The World According to Whiskey
The fan dries my eyeball
Soft contacts constrict
I sit stoned/drunk
Who knows how long
came to/wrote this
blew off the '60s
smoking pot slows it all down
to right now
no good getting tongue-tied
a good percentage idealism
has to be impractical
and there's some of the charm
and the rest nostalgia
like there's a door says bring it on
and all reason fails us
some nerve won't serve
everybody covering ass
got to maintain the cool
stay strong in the eye
i start the fire in the basement
with a stack of old rolling stones
this rock and roll bullshit
is yesterday
the world according to whiskey
that whiskey
you don't fuck
with brother
it leave you
whistling the
other side
of the mirror
& your eyes
get so dark
you don't even
know it
stay away from that
strong need
you tickertape
down the alley
a garbage can guru
they knock out
your teeth then
they stomp you
just to show you
watching the cable christians - the gaudiest show in town
bible-quoting
rifle-toting
christian soldiers
on the march
self-promoting
set their sights
on theirs by right
virtue born well-off
and white
and god's drunken power
the way they portray him
they way they worship
the way they pant
with that heathen rhythmic
mechanical surge
and the war clocks in
crusades & purges
everybody talking about
that greater glory
the polished greed
as testimony
in the twisted heart
where we can't pretend
the human peels the skin his need
points his weapon spilling seed
dribble down the corridors
the corners of mouths
the hustlers & the whores
the do-withouts understand
all the slamming doors mean
nothing's changing evermore
and your life's like
that pitiful orphan
in that movie saying
please sir i want some more
and all of us are saying it
deep down in our souls
this sonuvabitch is selling
salvation a small donation
there's more to us than history
or destiny controls
bleeding the turnips
and turn up their noses
the poor have so much more to give
and where we're taking the future
there ain't no soul to save
but if jesus hadn't risen
jesus hadn't risen
if jesus hadn't risen
he'd be turning
in his grave
to the bitter end
crushing
roaches
into pulp
chasing them
with my shoe
up and down
the walls
offering no
apologies
for the speckled
smears and bits
of chitin
the bodiless
twitching
antennae
my crazy laughter
(my tongue
thick and
sticky with
wine)
i fire up
a joint
and ride
the blur
(the room
already glazed
with smoke)
there is no
plan or purpose
to the poem
or the night
kicking off fan fair week
he's still up there playing
country corner u s a
across from the hall of fame
in parking lot 90 degree sun
going for guinness book of records
the promoter's hustling anybody
the girlfriend's pissed
"why the fuck you ain't got a tent man?
he can't sing in the goddamn sun
are you out of your fucking mind?"
and the cat plays on
sweating
stops
lone tourist asks him why
he don't do some of the newer stuff
"just like the older stuff"
he answers
"more real to me
hank
johnny horton
lefty
the old guys
aw shit"
tourist walks off
ten minute break's up
and it's all for nothing
he knows that
no one stops for long
it's a joke
he picks up his guitar
but he knows
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