Friday, October 28, 2011

Dear Suicide,

Sometimes I put rocks
in my vagina
like the Green River Killer
did to some of his victims
so my body
will sink down
into the river's
too forgiving mud.
You will be okay
if your soul turns into
a Lite Brite.
Using Jenny Holzer
on therapists can be fun
but with bill collectors
you'll get nowhere.
Grass and weeds are often
our planet's critical response
to stoopy human ideas.
When I walk in snow
I usually carry a knife,
it's the Inuit in me,
the Intel in me,
I do pray for polar bears
to appear though.
I didn't totally fail
Eskimo class.
What a sort of thrill
to be eaten alive
by something with eyes!
At least it's personal.
I don't think we're
getting anywhere near that Crucifixion
but you refuse to use
the G.P.S. So I'll just sit
here quietly and wait
for you to be permanently lost.
Then we can try again
although I suspect
we won't recognize each other
anymore by then. So
our movie will end
in other voices, other beds.
Still, I'm glad we'll
be proven to have had a point,
like ammonites and trilobites
and poetry and death
and funny, endless head.

No comments:

Post a Comment