Nowhere
With a bottle of vodka my lady left for me,
I learned to play all of the songs that make me weep.
I sang to the silence, stayed up way too late,
And woke up too early for another blue-collar day.
There are too many rats in this fucking cage!
I’m just another conjunction on history’s page.
Had an endless string of bad luck as of late.
But I miss your half-smile. I hope that you’re okay.
The world’s spinning me too fast, too dizzy to stumble.
I’m screaming, “S.O.S.,” but all they hear is a mumble.
I don’t remember the last time they asked, “How are you?,”
and listened for an answer or expected the truth.
The adjectives are absent, just superlative sighs.
Everybody’s got a story but forgets to write.
Memory is just a mouse to karma’s elephant.
And every serendipity is labeled a “God-sent.”
So, I’m checking the mail, hoping He writes home.
But there’s a knock at the door: two men in uniform.
“We’re sorry to inform you, dear soldier’s wife,
He was lost in combat, but he put up a fight.”
I say, “I’m sorry, soldiers, you’ve got the wrong home.
I’ve never known no God, no luck, just my own soul.
But my neighbor she’s been praying for her lost love.
She said his blood is wine and she’s emptied her cup.
His eyes are divine doves, and his body: sweet bread.
She’d tongue his feet clean for a full goblet.
I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what she says.
So, while she waits for his return, I’ve tried to write him instead.
I’ve been draining bottles dry to send them off with a scroll.
My carrier pidgeons fly to sacred parts unknown.
Still waiting for my answers, or at least a friendly hello.
I’m pretty sure He’s blind, or rude or just doesn’t know.
But I’ve only ever addressed them:
God
Nowhere
And there’s no “Return to Senders”, so I think that he’s there:
Nowhere.
But, I’m sad to hear of the loss, I guess I was wrong.”
“No, sorry, you weren’t. See, we lost His son.
We were fleeing from the frontline, he was forgotten.
Just days before he was supposed to finally come home.”
“Well, you should tell my neighbor: Faith don’t raise the dead.
And I will retire to my liquor cabinet.
I will cease my letters; I think I have enough proof.
Good morrow to you gentleman. I bid you adieu.”
So, I drink and rejoice that anything happens at all.
And, usually, I don’t care Who’s responsible.
But with this bad luck and this face so unfair
I’m headed where He is, if he’s there:
Nowhere.
