Member Rara Avis
-three bullets and a multivitamin-
So he, being all American,
Wanted to hang himself from a tree. You see
His music wasn't settling dark spaces,
Nor even filling them. His job
Was several indifferent feelings baked
And served cold. His appearance
Was a smile hinged by wires and false light.
But he, also being a coward, couldn't
Come to the decision of where best to die.
Underneath the cypress shadows?
Near the shore which would take some driving?
In his home, so someone else could take over
The freeway did not collect nor even sieve
His thoughts. Nor did the reflections
Pooling in vapid, rapid glass collections
Help him boil over.
He just blared the radio, felt nothing
And wondered if he should smash into the cars
In front, to the side, behind, weaving like bees;
Sting this. Honey mess all over the glassened road.
He had a raw collection of scars on his forearm.
Lazy, boring, ultimately failed razor trails.
Oh, the curse of thought, he thought,
Bathwater lapping at him and he not giving
Poor me, he poured.
He had many burned journals. You see, being
A coward, he routinely wanted to destroy himself,
But could never watch the fire for long
Before poking himself free with tongs.
Eventually, he sold some of his journals,
Attaching inflated importance to their flaws,
Otherwise he would not have saved them, he reasoned.
From all the burn marks, his words
Resembled poetry. Those not fooled easily
Realized he was only trafficking in
Spilled, charred ink.
Unfortunately, his mirror lied to him.
He began seeing genius in his frailness.
He surrounded himself with girlbodies
He bought a pool with his newly christened pay.
The chlorine did not sting his scars.
Nobody said no as he continued
Writing nothing but nothing;
More interested in the shape of skulls
Than the contours of hearts.
After a particularly long passage
About a coal tunnel with ebony shadows
And black soot puffing from oily crevices,
He put down his pen to finish a line of coke:
This was a more expensive way to burn, yes,
But saved him the ashes on his hands
And stains like ghostly footprints on his carpet.
And he saw, collected in sunlight,
Shining on the coffee table,
Three bullets and,
Not really shining,
He was sure nothing was really on there. He reached
Out to touch the table surface,
But there wasn't even powder left in his reflection,
And he felt a pain and noticed his hand bleeding, and it looked like chocolate, not blood,
but he tasted it and it was blood, not chocolate.
How could he have cut himself? He was here in his
California stucco dream with a girl in the other room, in the bath actually, he could hear her splashing around in the bath, and oh my god, was she going to kill herself? oh my god, were the razors out? yes, he could hear her!
He jumped up. the bullets and multivitamin
fell off the glass table. He ran to the door and tried the knob. but this was not the bathroom,
this was the driveway and who had messed up His house? who had come in and moved His door?
Running down the street, he didn't even pause,
a fast moving van ended his bees' flight
and any other questions.
Hand fallen forward, down, out,
palm raised to collect the sun,
The man smiled one last smile,
Felt something warm in the back of his throat.
At last, the love I've always heard so
Much about !!! -- he pulsed in eager selfishness.
But it was not chocolate, it was not sweet, and it was only blood coming to his lips,
Staining him a boring clown face,
And the man was only dead. again.