The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom
–William Blake “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”
everybody says that he’s a lucky guy – that his blue eyes are worth cash money
and he can eat out on that smile. he’s got love poems burned into the soles of his shoes.
how he looks so cut when he’s in the front yard, tinkering with an engine, all
american grease and steel, blowing a carburetor, shortening the stroke, all deltoids
and pecs and rhythmic purpose, heavy cotton stretched across a tanned forearm
he has sweat upon his brow. he’s a lucky guy
they say he has recession proofed investments, land up in the mountains and
he has done the math and shaved the odds – he has the certainly of a godless man
all his deals are on the up and up and his shirts all have runstitching on their two-piece collars
he has the gift of saying the simple things in simple ways, he has a handle on the random
some say he’s a parvenu savant who owns nothing but a two faced navajo blanket
and his spoonful is a bucketload. he’s a lucky guy.
he is loyal to the losers and entirely on the level – he can tell the shit from the shineola
and she loves him, all her sacramento booksmarts, floral prints and combat boots
he can write her letters from the garret or craft her erotic poems, he’s a gifted amateur.
folks say he’s quirky and mysterious and given to sudden funks and he don’t take shit
from no-one, no, he walks it like he talks it, he’s the emperor of maryland,
a veritable myshkin, so they say. he’s a lucky guy.
they say “oh, he’s a lucky guy, he can dodge the bullets, there’s no rap they can pin on him
he can beat this thing, he can take cocksure to the bank, grow a pear inside a vinegar bottle
this sort of thing don’t happen to guys like him, he can rise above it, overcome the heartbreak
the pretty ones endure, he’s got paraphernalia out the wazoo, he’ll be feeling himself in no time
time heals all wounds – heck, if a tree don’t fall on him, he’ll live until he dies!
he’s a lucky guy