No Gold, No Glory, No God

"No Gold, No Glory, No God"
a book of poems
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Sleeping In A Backseat"
(The Powerlines Looked Like Crosses)
(The Trucks Looked Like Dinosaurs)
mumbled in a backseat by jake kilroy.

I was sleeping in a backseat, counting my blessings,
the other night, the other long sleep.

The powerlines looked like crosses;
rumbling something terrible against some blurs of trees,
some abandoned homes and some orange canvas
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
but as we drove south and my eyes loomed north,
I counted my fingers broken and rattled my body for weather
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and I strayed from every hopeless deed I've ever burned into my chest,
countering any culture I ever created and destroyed like a pioneer
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping),
and for whatever reason I ever remind myself of foreign lust,
I can cradle my own skull atop some crawlspace of burden
(that only really finds itself admist poems of road-thumping).

But I went west anyway.
And then the sun went down like the Bible Belt,
finally a part of an outfit being thrown to the floor before casual sex.
Wear it well, with all of your grand desire.
They'll burn your statues to crack open sunlight.
A farce or an affair, suppose it's all the same when you lie to yourself.
But it's always a good laugh in the morning.

And humility will surely always follow.
And then the sun set, beautifully.
And before long...

The trucks looked like dinosaurs;
rumbling a loud passing with Christmas lights attached,
giants moving slowly against a landscape of burned out lanterns
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
and as I tossed and turned atop a mountain of belongings,
I counted some ripped photographs on fingers melting from misuse,
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
but the trucks kept a graceful pace as I let myself greet a slur of droopy eyes,
and smeared the hum of the trucks' glow by drawing the shades
(that only really find themselves admist poems of road-thumping),
as I couldn't ever really pull the blinds of daft irony, for what this may always be,
and I couldn't keep a gun in a carved out Bible,
keeping that book as hollow as it's always been to me
(when I only really find myself admist poems of road-thumping).

See how I lost the beat?
But for how long has this drummer been out of step, tripping over untied shoes?
Yeah, yeah, I bet this pattern's been sewn into a new jean jacket,
ready to be worn for another party circuit without the plug.

And this most certainly could mean nothing,
when I found myself without a cause or a reason,
without cause or reason,both singing for alarm;
I couldn't remember any Bible verse,
though quietly a righteous life;

and without a finger working properly;

I scribbled three lines on my rib cage:

in every single love or war
that i have ever waged or ever will wage,
i remain the most unholy almighty.