I strangled that bluebird long ago, kid.

Hone your craft, oh soldier of misfortune.
Go west, young man, and prosper.
But if by chance you return with less than expected
they'll tell of your failure for decades to come.
So save yourself some time and pride
and beat fate to the punchline

though the worst part about
that kind of death is the logistics of it
more than anything.
The blood and the shit and the piss
on the floor, seeping into the cracks
and underneath the door
until someone you know and probably love
finds you and then someone you don't know
and probably cut off in traffic once or twice
carries you out in a bag
because it's their job.

That whole scenario is the frightening part
not the question of whether there are Pearly Gates
or a light at the end of a tunnel to be followed.
A stranger should not pack away what's left of you;
we give too much of ourselves to people
we don't know on a daily basis already.
Why honor them with those last rites as well?
No, it should be your best friend to cart you off
and your worst enemy to give the eulogy
since maybe then that person would be forced
to find some good in the you that once was
or at least pretend to for the sake of the service.

In the meantime I sleep better knowing I'm worth more
dead than alive these days, seventy-five grand
to my secret beneficiary.
At least she'll finally get what she deserves
in a good way, of course.
Somewhere on God's sliding scale
it'll all even out in the paperwork and dividends.
Until then it's a matter of more of the same:
hallelujah, praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition.




Currently reading:
"Living On Luck: Selected Letters 1960s-1970s" by Charles Bukowski.