Wednesday, June 6, 2012

"The Patron Saint of Empty Gas Tanks"

"The Patron Saint of Empty Gas Tanks"
written with a mouthful of hot teeth by jake kilroy.

The desert opened up like a drunk poet at a party,
spilling its heated secrets and wasteland wishes;
a piece of sunburned gold, the color of flesh,
and as hard as the heartless and twice as cruel.

Give me the motor club mumbo jumbo.
Allow me to chant some oil spill voodoo.
Black magic in gear grinds and coughs,
I want the phoenix of and from engine steam.

I call upon you, Patron Saint of Empty Gas Tanks,
ride shotgun and don't change the song.
Just get me to Heaven a few miles over the speed limit,
channeling the lightest side the Devil ever had in him.

And then he appeared.
The rider of all riders,
the passenger of all passengers,
the navigator of all navigators.
I couldn't believe my luck.


I remained speechless, just a meandering idiot in the desert.

Thanks for the ride.

My eyes hurt from witnessing all.

And the snack.

The Spirit of Reckless Abandon snuffed through my bag of Frito's.

You don't talk much, do you?

No, I talk.

I had spoken the word of the bored.

I was kidding. I've seen you on this road before. You don't really shut up.

Yeah? At least I got nicer shoes on than someone from the High Plains of the Lord.

The Legacy of Joy Rides spit out his gum and laughed quietly to himself. It made me uneasy. But I was blessed! I was of the same metal and cushion as the Majestic Protector of the Hitch-Hiking Breed. I was chosen, even in my beloved and sacred mumblings. I had been given the chance to speak my peace.

Who said I was bound for glory?


He snickered. My eyes thinned.

God told me to just keep you from getting bored.

And after death?

Kid, after death's a long way off for you.

Ah! So I live a full life! 

I chattered like straight-C student. Meanwhile, the Guiding Light of Fast Cars just chuckled and drank holy water from a flask.

No, you still gotta jive through limbo, son.

My heart sank like a treasure chest.

What's the speed limit there?

He ran his glowing hands through his immaculate hair.

You don't wanna know.

And that's when he put on the Rolling Stones and kicked up his heels. He was in it for the long haul, maybe out of sympathy, maybe out of freedom, maybe truly out of boredom.

I wasn't sure why I was pacing the desert back and forth in four wheels, but this smug angel had his shit together.

Ever get sick of the job?

You ever get sick of breathing?

This conked me righteously.

It's like that?

It's like that.

I wiped my brow and coughed.

What's the pay like?


What's the deal with vacation days?


I furrowed my brow and adjusted my sunglasses.

Sounds like a good gig.

Sure is.

Then why don't you sound happier?

The roads are too short up there.


No comments: