Side Airbag #33
He manufactured and sold deadly
long after the first warnings were
used them at home, had a beautiful lawn.
At 23, his daughter had both breasts removed.
He sighed, told her it was Gods will,
what else could it be?
One day, she came home, caught him in the bathtub,
dumped in a couple of pounds of DDT,
let him sit in it for hours at gunpoint.
After that, he got sick, all kinds of things,
rashes, a cough, bowel problems.
On his deathbed, she came to see him,
stood looking down at him over her flat chest,
"Cheer up," she said. "its Gods will.
Youre going to that great mansion in the sky
where the lawns are eternally green
and the women have no tits.
Tell everybody hello for me."
Death By Magazine
Shes sprawled across the bed at her mothers house,
clutching a bottle of rum.
The black and white TV on the floor absorbs her pain,
sucks her in like a vacuum,
ingesting blood and pieces of bone,
searing scar tissue from a childhood accident
frame by frame.
Escape onto a backdrop of plain green and plaster.
The man on the box has a message.
He frowns at her quiet face and unplucked eyebrows
"Dont look like a girl," he spews, "glow like a siren."
Flat mannequin bodies on the TV screen.
Are they come to life plastic pages
or death by magazine?
She reads "Cosmo".
It tells her she should dab French parfum between her breasts,
but shes got no man to explore her,
to sniff her like a Doberman in heat.
And she feels so outré
with only a bottle of booze
to replace the photographs shell never appear in,
the celebrity guests shell never chauffeur.
Time to think is mandatory.
Its usually best at night
long after the last blouse has been ironed.
She feeds herself a constant plateful of myth.
a sore called surviving, an abscess that wont heal.
Comparison is a fatal mistake.
In the mirror, she analyzes.
Imagining is not enough anymore.
Thrashing at the glass,
shattering the glossy face pinned there,
she makes her own declaration.
"To be reincarnated as a model, living in Paris at 16,
skiing in my spare time
and dating rock stars.
I would like to pose for Revlon commercials,
have perfect teeth,
and never cry."
"IS GOD AN
Wont drink tonight
the long-distance bill,
of all of you,
below cold stars.
Ever get the feeling
this is a
Gods the same way,
Is God an alcoholic?
It might just
explain the Holocaust.
is not God."
on a club napkin.
of somebodys hope
Still, you wish
you could kiss
someone like that.
Wont drink tonight,
cant afford it.
Sleep is better,
for the body
carry this head
around until it finds
for not knowing
what to say,
with stupid feeling
like all those stars
or some tacky Roman god
lit with flashlights
in a C-film
where half of the actors
are high on something
or other. Other.
See how wonderful
Whoever invented it
was a genius.
Maybe it was God.
God is so much
silence you end
She or He or It
is out there somewhere
on the other end. A drunk
too sad to speak
brings out the sloppy truth,
pulls it out of your brain
moves your mouth.
Next morning you don't remember
the stranger you confessed your sins to
but he wasn't a priest
and you woke up in vomit
next to the old fat woman
you were in love with at Ziggies.
Everything was perfect bliss at 1AM.
That snort you just heard out of her
is your wake up call.
We are forever
doomed to the
failure of ourselves.
It is the tragedy
and it never ends.