“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.”
Emily Dickinson

I have an English degree from the University of Illinois at Chicago, and never once, not once, ever, have I heard anybody wonder what kind of writer Emily Dickinson would have been if she'd been a street junkie from L.A.  Much is made of her private life, which was spent almost entirely in solitude and seclusion on her family's Homestead in Amherst, Massachusetts.  It was a soft, quiet life, plagued with death and punctuated with whatever thrills she got from what was probably a lesbian relationship with her brother's wife.  She never went out.  

I don't blame her.  The world is a nightmare of sorrow and pain.  But what if she'd been born a hundred years or more later, to a white-trash welfare mom from Arkansas, and ran away to California to become a movie star, only to end up scouring the sidewalks at 4am for menthol cigarette butts in a cracked-out daze?  What if she was angry instead of loved, and took every opportunity to fill the vacuum in her rejected, unwanted soul with dramatic noise and street drugs, to compensate for the unbearable abyss of sadness that psychologists glibly dismiss as being the result of abandonment issues, even if they're right?

What kind of poems would she have written?  Would she still "disdain this pen, and wait for a warmer language?"  What would the "warmer language" in white-trash Emily Dickinson's correspondence be?  Lesbian affections?  Mexican black tar heroin?  A hug from a scorpion?

Would she have moved to New York?  Been a militant street poet in the East Village?  Would she have spent her days looking for dope in Tompkins Square Park, before going home to hang out on the fire escape and write nihilistic poems about death and public transit?

“Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The J Train held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.”
Emily X

Would she have done a screen test for Andy Warhol?  Lived on the roof with Valerie Solanas, smoking cigarettes and dreaming of the day when all men and dogs are finally destroyed?  Would she have written books in diners, on napkins made in China?  Behaved theatrically on sidewalks?  Performed the true and living verse, in memory of Shakespeare, jonesing for a fix?

What if she died in the reign of holy terror?

Would anybody mourn her?

Dope is a Thing with Feathers

Dope is a thing with feathers, baby
that perches on the soul
it turns your dreams all into nightmares
and all your diamonds into coal
the days are growing tentacles,
the hours grow horns
when they're through with you
you're gonna wish
you never been born
I'm warning you to shut your mouth
and find yourself
a better place to hide
you need anything at all,
my broken arms are open wide
take off your suicidal bridal suit
the joy of bloody murder
her daddy taught her how to shoot,
but man ya shoulda heard her
when she jumped
out of the window
screaming, "Jesus is the cure!"
she hit the ground like a professional
but she bled just like an amateur
are you sure you weren't in Omaha
when your sister was arrested?
she said that she was clean
but she's never been tested
unless the jury finds her guilty
I guess we gotta let her go
if you got no kinda evidence,
I gotta tellya
I don't know
I know a lotta crazy people,
crazy people,
yes it's true
but none-a them's psychotic
except for me,
and maybe you

Jesus drives a pickup truck
and the devil drives a Mercedes
she's got the hottest deal on the lot
she's got the highest heels in Hades
all the ladies all get jealous
when their fellas double-take
cuz rules were made for amateurs
and hearts were made to break
you can take me for an idiot,
baby I don't care,
just don't tell me whatcha think you're lookin' for
like I'm supposed to care
spare me all your pity
and your broken-hearted poems
all your "it wasn't me who dunnits,"
"I wasn't theres,"
and "I don't know hims"
Just take me back to the city
take me back to New Orleans
where all the tar-paper saints
and chicken-feathered fiends
are playing drunken violins
and dope-addicted cellos
I ain't sayin' you's a coward,
but your face is turning yellow
say hello to the third degree
and goodbye to your mama
start runnin' for your life
while you can, cuz baby I'm'a
I'm a-gonna run for president
right after I break out of prison
the Warden isn't dead, baby,
He is risen,
listen to me when I tellya,
them bulletholes don't lie
and ya never know exactly
what ya think ya want
until you die

You can't judge a loser
by his cover story,
unless that loser, dude,
is you!
You've bitten off a little bit more bull
shit than I can chew
why don'tcha dew
yourself a favor
and give it to me straight
well I licked him
like a victim
I really cleaned his plate
I ate
sandwiches of vengeance
out of his picnic basket
I laughed like a hyena
when they put him in his casket
I'm gonna ask you one more question,
and I ain't askin' it
again
we already know what he's been doin'
just tell me where he's been
he's on permanent vacation
at the bottom of the ocean
forget about the salt and pepper,
baby pass the lotion
motion to fry the witness
fry him where he sits
the shoe might be full of shit
but ya gotta wear it
if it fits

I've seen paradise from every balcony
it can possibly be dangled,
peace of mind
in every piece of machinery
it can possibly be mangled
but baby this isn't paradise,
it's 43rd & State,
they take a year off your life
for every minute that you're late
the early girly
gets the pearly
and a guilty plea,
but whoever comes in last
is comin' home with me
could it be that yer neurotic?
baby it's a fact
I don't care if you get pregnant
as long as my alibi's intact
she attacked
me in the alleyway
with a dirty pink stiletto
she says she's from Connecticut,
but she grew up in the ghetto
don't let a woman steal
your dignity and pride
Man, she don't love you,
she's takin' you for a ride!
There's a brand new sucker born
every 20 seconds,
so turn around
and walk away
when temptation beckons

Well it's one for my delusions,
two for goin' with the flow,
three for actin' stupid
and four to go
crazy,
I got termites
crawlin' through my veins
you been pullin' out your hair,
baby I been
pullin' out my brains!
The rains is relentless;
the agonies never end
I don't wanna be your lover
I don't wanna be your friend
this neverending story
of misery and woe
all dressed down without anywhere to go
So everybody say your prayers,
everybody freeze
you've been splittin' hairs
baby I'm splittin' personalities
seize the day
and burn it to the ground
ya know ya wouldn't want me
if I wasn't leavin' town
ya ask me where I'm goin'
but I swear I'll never tell
until we all
get to heaven,
you can all go to hell

©2009 Nathan Payne & Emily X