Child of God.

A poem about going all the way.

1

Fuck it. Gun it. Stomp your foot
on the gas. Punch the pedal.
Test the metal. Wince through the 
pain in your knee. Bite your tongue. 
Savor the iron. Smile with blood in
your teeth. Look at yourself in the
rearview mirror. You're beautiful.
You're deranged. You're gorgeous.
You're insane. You're an angel with
a vice. You're a demon with a
conscience. You're a child of God.

2

Fuck it. Gun it. Let the horses run. 
Let the hounds hunt. Let the machine hum.
Faster. Faster. Until the yellow lines
on the road become one. Eat it. Consume it. 
Devour it. 100 mph. 110 mph. 120 mph. 
You're ravenous. You're voracious. 
You're insatiable. You're unquenchable. 
You're Pac-Man. You're Pacquiao. 
You're a prizefighter. You're an underdog.

3

Fuck it. Gun it. Drive it like it's hot.
Drive it like you got 10 kilos of crank
in the back. Drive it like sirens
are nipping at your ass. Drive it
like you've escaped from San Quentin.
Drive it like the tank is empty and
you ain't got shit to put in it.
Drive it like you've got nowhere 
left to turn. Drive it like Anton
is chasing you with a cattle gun.

4

Fuck it. Gun it. Keep going and
don't look back. You're Orpheus. 
You just cut a deal with Hades. 
Your dead wife is two steps behind you.
Everything you want is on the other side.
You just can't look back. Yesterday,
doesn't exist. The last moment,
doesn't exist. All you have is now.
All you are is now. What you do now
is all that counts. So make it count.

5

Fuck it. Gun it. Run it like Hunter 
S. Thompson. Life isn't a journey to the grave. 
Safety is a fallacy. Prettiness is fleeting. 
Preservation is reserved for those too scared 
to go all the way. Crash in broadside 
to the soundtrack of gnarled steel, choking 
on a cloud of burnt rubber. Used up. 
Worn down. Ragged. Spent. Shot. Finished.
Sit down, light a cigarette. Thank God. 
Ask him if you can do it all again. 

By Cole Schafer.