Re-post with a edit. Russian roulette
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Life is taking chances. We will fall many times. If we are lucky. We will know peace one day.
Beautiful young woman dances on a stage on the border of Austin.
Moving like a butterfly in the breeze.
Holding the attention of the men holding tight to good whiskey and the gin.
A religious man sits with me drinking Jack Daniel straight.
He is telling me the rapture is coming and it is too late.
I hold my whiskey tight.
Watching the young woman on stage.
I waved a five dollar bills. She come near.
Brought my face close. She whispered. “Thank you Johnnie. You are a gem.”‘
The darkness had overtook me.
I told my sisters many ways to die.
Can play Russian roulette with a mirror or slowly poison the blood and the mind.
Fast death or slow. Old world is playing Russian roulette with us anyway.
I watched old Soldiers die from wounds by the old wars.
They drank for themselves and friends lost in the dirt of Korean and Vietnam war.
The old boys didn’t complain.
I watched many die and I wonder would they repeat their life as was?
The girl with the big blue eyes sat on my lap.
She asked for me to read her a poem.
I laughed and told her. “I will write a new one for you my blue eye princess.”
I ordered a Jack with no ice and a coke for my dancer friend.
I asked her does she want a love poem? An erotic poem or a poem of
misery and chance?
She smiled and kissed my cheek. Requested a poem of misery and tears.
The gun is loaded.
Old heart is gone.
Nothing is left.
I roll the chamber.
I know there is three bullets in my father’s old 32.
I pray for one damn good reason to be alive.
No-one answered. Nothing appeared in my mind or heart.
The silence mean they is nothing left.
Old 32 pistol is very old.
Dad carry the side arm for 30 years.
It had been sitting in a safe place waiting.
I hold the gun in my hand.
Was it a savior or a bad ending?
I drink from the bottle of Black velvet.
I looked to the sky.
Told God. No Russian roulette today.
Ain’t a good day to die.
I asked my beautiful dancer.
Did the poem have enough misery and sadness?
My friend lay her head into my chest and soft tears begin to fall.
She whispered. “Yes it did. Please don’t leave my kind and sad Poet.”
I told her. I will stay as long as you need me near.