.
1. It's time to retreat
    To call off the war, to turn in the trumpets,
    To shut off our hearing aids to those who are bullet-riddled with Ritalin.

2. Leave passion at the door
    The coat rack is missing, but that's what people are for,
    Push them back into the closets with your woolen wares and see.

3. Check in your soul with the desk clerk
    The bellhop promises to bring it up soon, but the elevator is out of order.
    His trolly's wheels were stolen and the stairs are still on fire.

    Sorry.
    No refunds.

4. Lock all the doors and tip your cows
    You're too tipsy for another round of room service anyways and the
    police are planning a raid.
    Tell the too young girls with the too old eyes the time has come to go and
    stitch your innocence back on.

5. Check your bedstand for a bible and a razor
    Ignore the ***** stains; the key to salvation was paid in sin.
    Put yourself on a pension plan because I hear the devil's running a good
    racket.

    Sorry.
    No refunds.

6. Trash this place on Yelp. Trash this place in person.
    The devil is hiding in the woodwork and there's a people zoo of women
    dancing on the yellowed wallpaper.
    The carpet smells like Daddy's cigarettes and Mommy's drunken spit-up.

7. w̶r̶i̶t̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶m̶e̶s̶s̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶i̶r̶r̶o̶r̶
    What a proud song:
    Here's to the the nihilists, here's to the named,
    Here's a vague attempt to mark the world in meaning.

8. Break the mirror instead

Sorry.
No refunds.

But they offer complimentary mints.

Like a giant Sequoia tree, well aged and outwardly still tall and firmly anchored                                        
I proudly display, my outer senescent bark, but inside, I’m pitted and cankered

Still majestic and straight, branches spread, with fingered needles reaching for the sky                            
But at each limb joint, those cracks lay hidden; not yet visible, to the naked eye

Those blisters ravage and rage, at my inner trunk; but not, so you can clearly see                                                                                    
Hidden by the sap; like those morning rheum tears, which seep out and crust on me

I reach skyward, extend my branches to the sun; my sieve tubes there unplugged                                                                                  
But below, my veins congested, and my arteries full of sap, are fully clogged  

And yet I stand, without an outward tremble; disguising well the tremors in my roots                                  
With all my strength, I will them hold; do not cede, to the pain that in them shoots                                                        

I will perceiver; not able to bend with the wind, I stand firm still; until I break                                              
Stiffen my resolve; until my fluids coagulate, and rigor mortise does me overtake                                
BOEMS BY JA 397