Big Party
I saved my pennies
and scored a few
8 mg tabs
of good, clean Dilaudid.
I knew what to do
how to have a good time
especially if it’s
the last good time.
It came on slow
and beautiful
the way death should
and love never had.
--
I Have Come Here To Be Betrayed
The man with the cat’s paw
got out a footstool so he could reach.
“So played out,” he said,
and pried out the first spike.
“Oh, it stings!” said the martyr.
“No one cares,” said the man
and took out the other 3.
“Bless you, my son,”
said the martyr.
“Bless yourself,” said the man.
He put away his tools
and left the martyr in a heap
without even a Sharpie
and piece of cardboard
to spread the word.
--
Some People Can Only Slow Down Their Suicides
If you feel you’ve exhausted every crumb of sidewalk on the few blocks you know so well, if you feel there’s nothing interesting behind the 100,000 apartment doors, that the junkies are identical leaves from the same tree, if you feel you must manufacture zeal, pretend at zeal because you’ve exhausted the natural reserves, the water table has fallen, and even the cacti are beginning to wilt, all I can say is blame yourself. Don’t blame the concrete, the styles of dress, the barren, anemic newspapers, blame yourself. There is death here, death and dying, and you’re part of it. If it’s not love, then write about death.
I saved my pennies
and scored a few
8 mg tabs
of good, clean Dilaudid.
I knew what to do
how to have a good time
especially if it’s
the last good time.
It came on slow
and beautiful
the way death should
and love never had.
--
I Have Come Here To Be Betrayed
The man with the cat’s paw
got out a footstool so he could reach.
“So played out,” he said,
and pried out the first spike.
“Oh, it stings!” said the martyr.
“No one cares,” said the man
and took out the other 3.
“Bless you, my son,”
said the martyr.
“Bless yourself,” said the man.
He put away his tools
and left the martyr in a heap
without even a Sharpie
and piece of cardboard
to spread the word.
--
Some People Can Only Slow Down Their Suicides
If you feel you’ve exhausted every crumb of sidewalk on the few blocks you know so well, if you feel there’s nothing interesting behind the 100,000 apartment doors, that the junkies are identical leaves from the same tree, if you feel you must manufacture zeal, pretend at zeal because you’ve exhausted the natural reserves, the water table has fallen, and even the cacti are beginning to wilt, all I can say is blame yourself. Don’t blame the concrete, the styles of dress, the barren, anemic newspapers, blame yourself. There is death here, death and dying, and you’re part of it. If it’s not love, then write about death.
