Wrap a scarf about your hairy neck,
something fur—something warm.
Drive an iceberg,
but don’t fall asleep at the wheel
(that is far too typical).

Follow the red dots lining the edge of the sky,
they will lead you to the drop-off
so you won’t be late for school
or work.
But leave time for coffee,
and always ***.

Listen to talk radio,
it will keep you in good humor
make your hair grow longer
fix your handwriting.
It is always important to listen with only one ear,
for you never know when God will speak.

Limit yourself to one meal a day.
You will shrink, sprout wings,
like the taste of beetles.
Remember the name of your grandmother, though,
it will be the password.

If your hair is long enough,
untie it and let it become a river.
It will stretch for miles
and you will never want for water,
but you might miss the stars
so watch closely, they like to play tricks.

Paint the trees blue;
they have never been that color.
And wash your hands—
the fine is hefty for changing things too much.
People become confused
and get lost when they do not recognize their own driveway.

When you arrive, present your passport,
show the whites of your eyes—
it is the only way to prove that you’re real.
You will melt and fall silent
your hands will become blue
(don’t worry, you are safe here).
No one will speak to you if you remember your ancestors.

Soon, you’ll reach the edge of the world.
Take off your shoes and drop them first.
Make your presence known
it is good to be small and silent,
that way, when you jump from the crumbling cliff of Earth
and you fly,
everyone will think you fell.

The window was open and the fan was on
as long drags of cigarettes filled the bedroom.
"Sure is a pretty sunset, Louise,” Mark commented
his eyes were on the horizon.
“Yeah,” she breathed,
her eyes were on her reflection in the mirror before her,
cigarette hanging loosely from her lips.
“You didn’t even look.”
Louise fixed her hair and took another drag of nicotine.
Mark watched her reflection too,
this time she wiped eyeliner from her face.

“You’re pretty.”
He got up and touched her hair.
“Gorgeous.”

He moved down her back to her waist,
his fingertips trickling like water
from a fountain.
His lips grazed her neck
and her shoulder
and he stuck his face in her hair
and breathed in her smell
and all the while she watched her own reflection.

Disgusted, she shifted and kissed him like she knew he wanted.
She kissed him hard and *****,
like she hadn’t kissed him before.
He wiped his mouth. She felt like an animal.

“You taste like freedom,” he said
after rubbing his face in pleasure.
“****, I am free,” she cursed.
She lit another cigarette and glanced at the sunset,
then back to her waiting reflection.

Some things are just prettier than others.

There was an old man who when little
Fell casually into a kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that kettle.

i'm going to die here, i know i will,
they change their scope of helping me,
every time i slide farther down the hill,
"you can have this pill at a certain time,"
"NO! Wait! We've changed our mind,"
"you can have it at this new time, how kind!"
"just make sure there's someone on who can tell the time.."

and if i lay here waiting, for what i may or may not get,
my hands will slowly tremble and my mind so deeply frets,
all alone in this wrinkled bed clothes, no one sees me yet,
but now the nurses have come to me with a little more regret:
"the doctor says you'll now have to wait 7 more hours for relief,
it seems he doesn't like being awaken at nighttime when he sleeps."

so, i get to feel my tears build up behind my bloodshot eyes,
no one is here at all to help me understand just why.
you should see me now alone trying so hard now not to cry,
all i feel is stunned, cold shock and this feeling that i will die
--i'm going to die here, bit by bit, inside out and all alone,
i don't know what to do or say, or how to make last atone,
for all i've done in my life, that has brought me to this place,
to compose this death-wish poem to read as tear-drops paint my face.

but, for now with nothing else left to do in my hospice room,
i do the last thing that i can do the best, just write and wait for doom.

is there anyone out there?
help, help, help me, i beg and try to plead!
will anyone please come here,
hold and hug me in my need?

i'm  going to die here,
and i'll be all by myself,
left alone like a broken knick-knack
on a dusty shelf.
___