all the decimals burn off in the intervals
at this point i'm just paying for fumes
somewhere beyond the ph boundary
spontaneous combustion engines will exhume
every failed model, fueled by manic-
depression or just meth, huff the tail-end
kitchen or garage, doesn't matter where you find me,
barrage of flash-photography
trying to glimpse the bitter end
car or oven, all the same to me
the way nooses look like knives or pills or
getting high
enough to see beyond the veil, the esoteric
beings psychedelics claim to hail
i load up tablets in my shotgun-glass
til i'm too drunk to shoot straight
and keep a travel-sized dose of xanax at
the bottom of my barrel, just in case.
only i've never had the guts. call me a
coward, self-administration's a mess:
lack of organization, just a vacuum of power
any potential righteous self-righting mechanism
just gets sucked up by the void in my head.
so i go for a drive, try to find some sign to
fixate on, yield to auto-erotic asphyxiation.
i'm not trying to kill myself, it's just a kink
in the plan, because i had to finish instead of finishing the job.
casper the gasper, if only it would stick,
if only i had any real reasons to commit.
so instead i'll sing and swear i'm not suicidal
until the psychic ward i'm watching gets sick
of my constant denial
a jane heir of mitochondrial eve,
knowledge is the mother of all sin and disease.
premonition is my only opposition
knowing all this has some purpose in the grand cosmic scheme
judas killed himself, so why shouldn't i?
if Jesus knew all along there was a betrayer at His side?
is life pre-determined? are these thoughts
all mine? or inserted in my mind for some
artistic design?
i swore i would quit after the hundredth
cigarette put out under my heel,
but i can't—not yet, because every accident
i drive past i see myself at the wheel.