AFTER GOD 8
There is a bad God, he thought;
His hair had gotten too long, and
He flipped it from his eyes
Like a younger man
On a Saturday, busy trying
To advance love in a turquoise
Jacket and white puffy shirt sleeves,
Albert King on the other television stool.
Stevie Ray, I want to say,
Don’t get on that bird.
Starting my third year of grad school,
I heard it from the piss and moan
Curly headed punk who would
Break into Monty Python snickerings
During a Mark Twain lecture,
And it was as if skynyrd had crashed
In a delta field again.
There is a bad God
If there is any,
And we are slicked down
And blued up in the grease paint
And the stage light that leads us away.