"skipped a beat, kept the rhythm"

"skipped a beat, kept the rhythm"
an early morning poem by jake kilroy.

my hands wandered you like nomads,
like i told so many deserts before.
the wastelands. the badlands.
the canyon rim of heaven's barren plains.

some rely on the smoke,
some heavy on the drink.
me, i'm as down for the count
as a boxer on his last stand,
sipping wildly at cough syrup.

painting scars as rock art.
writing songs 'bout songwriters.
i'm sick to death of blondes,
but i'm still riding the wolves
to all the wrong bars in town.

i slept through a long winter
and it felt like a summer's nap.
i was sick with sweat when i woke.
but i managed a squeaky laugh.

too many books on my shelves,
not enough numbers in my coat.
got just the right amount of gold.
and it passes right through me,
like the last raft on the river home,
which is any place i can find shelter.

i skim bibles and i store threats,
making the best of a gambling debt,
hoping god's the nicest bookie in town.
but my empty jeans say more about me
than my poker face could ever tell.