IAN BRENNAN: Music

"Real Men Love Jesus"...and Drive Shitty Cars

(IAN BRENNAN)

“Real Men Love Jesus”...and Drive Shitty Cars

It’s a game of Chicken
with your heart.
This time you mean it,
but nobody cares.
Not like they did
when you were
drunk and naked.
Your father’s complaining
of chest pains.
Two packs a day
have caught up
with him in Spades.
“I’m as healthy
as a horse.
Come and sit
on my lap.”
To them you’re just
the temp-worker
with a run in her hose,
but to me
you’ll always be
the one I never
should have let go.
I’ve tried to forget, but can’t.
“I feel like
the luckiest woman
on earth.”
Then why do you
look so hurt?
You’re showing teeth,
but not smiling.
You said
you were going to get out,
but you’re still living above
your parent’s garage
and smoking pot.
Did you give up
or are you just stuck?
Your face is bright and wide
like the moon from 240 thousand miles.
You sleep with the TV on.
It blocks out the other sounds.
With no clothes on
you ran out into the rain,
crouching there,
refusing to respond.
Scaled the redwood fence
your brother built.
He never finished it.
Walked the top edge
like it was a balance beam,
screamed toward
yellow hills
turning green.
The neighbor’s Rottweiler
leaps from the other side.
He can’t reach you.
No one can.
Show me where it hurts.
I don’t have to be the first.
I just want to be
the last.