Voice Mail

Voice Mail


Voice Mail

Voice Mail

If I thought what I now say
Had any chance of being carried back by you,
This flame would cease to stir; but since no one may
Return alive from here. . . .

If I erected

a suicide machine

in the shape

of a cross—

so  when I

step into place,

lash my feet

to upright,

tie my arms

to crossbeam,

press remote:

crown of thorns

smashes into head,

pelted with stones,

spikes drive through

ankles and wrists,

spear through side.

Would it rate mention

in the

Headline News ticker?

Or would my

cynical Howl

be lost in the

 24 hour news cycle

like grime tossed

 upon a windshield

—S P L A T—

then gone in a whir

and a flash?

. . .

After the examiners,

take samples,

coroners flash

photographs,

cleaners sanitize

the wet-spot,

will the undertaker

prop up

my mortal remains

for friends, family,

and twisted gawkers?

Will they flash

 gruesome pictures

on the news screen?

Will visitors travel

from miles around

to see where

such a  macabre

death took place?

Perhaps visit the grave

 of a clever and

determined suicide?

Or will my final comment

on my life and times

be lost

in the mindless cacophony

of a generation

 that cannot get over

how cool it is?

Enthrall to instant celebrities

—famous for being famous—

smart phones, HDTVs,

Blu-Ray, IPod, 3D IMAX ,

they think they have it all.

. . .

I see dark,

damaged souls

gliding by

in Acuras, Lexus,

and Hummers,

 blind to the pain

and  poverty

surrounding  them,

judging others

by the size

 of their paycheck,

believing  they

know all, yet

knowing nothing.

. . .

Will I be robbed

of my fifteen seconds:

my bitter yawp

bumped from the

news ticker

by the latest

techno-gimmick,

or the antics

of a slut pop diva?

. . .

Spent NOS cartridges**

surrounding me,

anaesthetized ,

I dodge

bill collectors.

Hola, te pregunta, por favor?

I answer  their calls,

chasing them

away

with a lenguaeje

they  do not comprehend.

. . .

I sit alone

—silent—

a ragged claw,

 Solomon to the south,

 Ezekiel to the north,

in a tattered chair,

in a run down

mobile home.

Raw plywood floors

leaky roof,

failing electrical—

bulbs brilliant

to power spikes

or flickering out—

at the end

of a potholed street.

my home an empty shell

haunted

by memories

of happy times,

legions of demons

and I

work fiendishly

on the cross,

 and pray

for The End.

**NOS Cartridges: nitrous oxide whipped cream charger.