in the line of fire / requiem for Beverly

the big-sky-object is shootin’ again

bobbing and weaving behind Its cloud

of smoke which is altogether unnecessary

for a big-sky-object.

I’m sick of not having a chance.

I’m sick of being puny, and tired of

Its face staring back at me through

the wretched morning mirror.

looks like It’s getting old, and It’s wrinkled

around Its private parts.

as for me, I get colder every night at the television screen,

and getting around the block is adventurous.

I wonder why I’m still afraid of smoking cigarettes.

SHIT ! –– a warning shot just wizzed by my head,

interfering with my thoughts of longevity, and another

fading, but dreamy image of Beverly Greenwood.

now there’s a looker I tell you.–– but, well…

as the Nazarene last murmured upon his dying bed: “cést la vie”!

the last line of this poem was strongly influenced by:

"In my time of dyin'" / Bob Dylan