Saturday, December 4, 2010

now it's borodin...

Plath did it with gas

at 4:30 in the morning

what a time to go

just after the soul’s night is darkest

sealed the doors to her kids’ room with wet blankets

placed her head in the oven

what a way to go

her last breath oxygen-less

kneeling down on the kitchen tile

not hysterical at all

probably as calm and determined as she’d ever been

maybe delusioned into expecting breakfast

or dreaming of bumblebees on Johnson Avenue

while the trash trucks hummed and sighed outside

shards of gobbledygook and palindromic names threshing her memories

no longer crawling underneath houses to drown in sleeping pills

a more direct approach that doesn’t cry for help

or hurt


Hemmingway ended it with a twelve-gauge

a felo-de-se just like his old man

put a bullet through his head with his favorite shotgun

in Ketchum, Idaho

nowhere left to run

some say a rope will snap quicker what’s left of you

not so

not so

the noose might fail

or a beam might break

leaving complications of the senses

or bewildered drooling

I knew a guy who tried 4 stories

but gravity let him down

so he went up to thirteen

a popular number for jumpers

the sirens sang him away in roughly 15 minutes

there will always be mothballs in the brain

a spate of rash decisions

that won’t make it far enough

to try keeping on for size

some say pentobarbital will do the job

but take too much and you’ll sick it all up

too little and you’ll linger around like rotten cabbage

leap into fire

get dashed by flames


there are gray jays pleading in the basement

and the water’s too cold for the mess of a drowning

besides suddenness might come on too slow

as taking cues from Spalding Gray or Hart Crane

is not for those of the wavering or timid sort

knew a kid who used a dead-end street as a drag strip

in his parent’s brand new Honda

thought the brick wall at the finish would do the job

crashed the thing through doing 70 and sailed it into a pool

but he was foiled by the car’s safety features

the airbag made sure he was laid up for 6 months

recovering his miserable self

one must be sure to be thorough

and fortify one’s spirit to be hasty and cocksure

at the end

when that gorgeous green window lifts

to reveal the hidden components of necessity

and you sip the tides from the lunatics and the bums

and the lawyers flash smiles like tossed gold pieces below your calloused feet

like bird feed

which was incurred during flush times of survival

while there were still a few horses left to bet on

while time marched instead of nose diving

one must respect the ones who are left behind

a mush of reminiscing

a curling spit of sun

charred descendents of other scars and fleshy misgivings

a respite is not enough


there is no training ground for hesitation

a white-winged dove will not swoop down to the rescue

and angels have more important matters to attend to

like saving whales and planting the seeds of next year’s harvest


don’t grow too fond of farewells

circles mend their own bends

even if darkness lowers the boom

perhaps a burial ground for the static-brained yawns of bored evenings might do

or a leper colony for jealousy

sometimes mercy will not strain

not even for a quality individual

like yourself

a girl who once lived upstairs

sliced her wrists both ways

and bled into bathwater

until the super came breaking in to see about a noise complaint

seems she’d been blasting the radio the whole while

the unfortunate bastard bandaged her up and called the paramedics

who arrived too early to save her

so she went on

until a bottle of tranquilizers found her stomach

and then a bottle of cheap vodka

which finally finished off what she’d never wanted to begin

her bed held her shape for almost a week

before they found her

lying there prone with hands outstretched

as if posing for a crucifixion

smiling at what she’d done

Wallace Carothers

the inventor of nylon

mixed his cyanide with lemon juice

in a cheap Philadelphia hotel room

to work the trick quicker

endurance and willpower

strength and hope

things to say on a string of petty days with nothing to be tied to

just one after the next

clomping along

in a business-as-usual clump

but somewhere

like a crane fly skimming frost flowers in January’s meanest

or a sky glutted with the bent-paperclip shapes of birds

a newfangled buffet car for the freshly dead is rumbling by

and there is no place to put the things one might miss

on a cold day at the end of November

no place that’ll hold what remains

and it is just this now

that matters

in whatever capacity we might have for imagining it

like eating an apple

or forgetting to close the garage door