Disturbed by the turbulence of a murderer’s burden,
you turned yourself in, knowing you couldn’t win.
The blood on your hands clamored its demands.
The axe that you swung was a net that was slung.
But don’t feel too bad about what you did, kid.
Everybody’s a little bit of a killer; you run over manatees
when manning the tiller, but don’t laugh your ass off
like the late Phyllis Diller, or think it’s okay to be a blood-spiller.
Jesus Christ will forgive you if you’re into that thing.
If you’re not, let your guilt teach you how else to sing.
Life’s a gift and a curse that gets better and worse.
If you think it’s divine to feel like a swine, fine, have some wine;
Christ’s a grape on the vine. Dostoyevsky, who made you,
sure suffered himself; but the butchers who slaughter the most
find you quaint. For them, conscience and guilt are best
left to the saint. And the hell they’re creating has room for us all.
Their persistent ambition says it’s okay to fall.