Poem by Thomas Moody
It would be nice if, as St John of the Cross teaches,
My soul would leave my body each night and wash
Itself clean of worldly desires, as if sin could be divested
Like calories from beer, and I could wake up with
The same kind of hangover just guilt-free—
But I don’t expect my soul to strive for heaven
While I sleep—I’d settle for the kitchen, if it could
Wipe down the benches and take out the trash, maybe
Do the dishes, so I no longer have to wake to the smell
Of stale whiskey and cigarette ash. If it needs to leave
The house then it can go out and settle some of my debts,
Or visit upon my rivals, put their hands in bowls of warm
Water while they sleep so that they piss the bed next
To their lovers; or it can head to the crossroads, in New York
That would be Broadway & 42nd St, lean back against
The wall with one foot raised and sell itself.
It’s not a high-rent fame I’m looking for, not a
Robert Johnson kind of influence or Dylanesque endurance—
At this age I’d take a one-hit-wonder, a reality TV show, an
Electoral college. Best of all it could go door-to-door, not to sell,
But to coax or buy, if necessary, its mate, the other half of me—
The soda I always forget to add to the whiskey, the lighter I never bring,
Or perhaps it has been doing that each night for the the past thirty-
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