Conversation With The Devil by Daniel S. Irwin

Last night, I had
A conversation with the Devil.
We talked about my life,
My untimely death,
Mostly just for laughs.
He particularly liked
My booze binges and
Wild sex in Amsterdam.
As time went by,
He began to speak
Of his problems
In his difficult job,
Doing his work with
Godly restrictions.
“There, there,” I said,
“Now, Chuck, if I may
Call you ‘Chuck’,
You’re doing a great job
In the real of misery.
Everything’s going to crap.
People are unhappy.
You’re still regarded
As quite the asshole.”
He offered me a job
Which I told him
I would have to refuse
As true to his
Misguided amusement,
He would later
Withdraw the offer
And I would be
Filleted, burnt on a spit,
And have several ‘Bubba’s
Waiting in line to make me
Squeal like a pig.
He laughed at that.
Then, that asshole, Chuck,
Inflicted grievous harm upon me
(Literary for ‘done me dirt’).
I woke from a dream
And cheated from clearing
The last hurdle of life,
Had to face seemingly
Never ending toil
At least another day.
“Damn you, Chuck!
No wonder the song says
Fire is the Devil’s only friend”.

Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is).  Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.

Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide.  Has appeared in over one hundred films. 

Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded.  Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.

Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away.  

Riff On the 23rd Psalm by Bruce Morton

There is no servant to guide him; 
He thirsts.

He is left to dry washes
Wandering desperate in the dust.

He has lost his mind. 
An imposter, he cannot find it 
In the arroyos of deceit.

No, though he clambers on cliffs
Reflecting in glow of setting light,
He cannot see any blessing for him, 
Alone, desert rats frighten him.

The table is laid bare for his friends. 
He has nothing to share. He is 
Forsaken; his canteen empty.

Surely despair and neglect
Cannot follow him always.
Will he dwell on the street forever?

My lord, he is supposed to have a shepherd;
To not want.

Bruce Morton splits his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have recently appeared in San Pedro River Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Main Street Rag, Loch Raven Review, Ibbetson Street, and Sin Fronteras/Writers Without Border. He was formerly Dean of Libraries at Montana State University