Tag Archives: suicide

On Having Turned Thirty Without Killing Myself

I have joked about suicide with the
Tastelessness of an overcooked steak, charred
Like a body burnt in the wreck of a
Car (the logical end result of nights
Spent drinking and a brain that backfires and
Bristles in the presence of speed limits)

Had I died, the real killer would not have
Been the bullet but the decisions that
Put me in the path of the gun, the sheer
Hubris that has often found me waltzing
‘Round a battlefield wearing a target
(I have kissed the lips of cliffs, flirted with
Fire, run cars red, toasted to broken glass)

But if I have let my laugh echo down
The cavernous depths of a barrel, I
Am grateful no monster emerged therewith

There are mountains unconquered, stories to
Tell, women to love. My work is not yet


Reign XIII

For Chris Cornell

With pen and ink, blood and bone, I proclaim:
“We’ve been living like études, short, fast, hard.
(Rock and roll, baby!) Sex, drugs, magic, fame:
We devour them, laugh and push things too far
(but never too too far, until we do,
Until life becomes stacatto and we
Trade microphones for shotgun barrels.) You
Made it past twenty-seven, thirty-three,
And we thought if you didn’t die strung out
On a cross, you’d live forever. But no
One does. We just get that one time around,
And if that doesn’t do it, what will? So.
Here I go, cataloging in sutures
The coronation of King No Future


Asteroidea will conclude tomorrow. In the meantime, here’s some nonsense about self-mummification!

Exfoliate yourself

Needles and roots and bark

Poison and salt

Berries of pale blue

No deep northwestern indigo

But the sickly shade

Of a bruise that rose

Only to set

A sick to remind you

Of the sick inside you

And then expunge it

A diet to cure you

Of the you that ails you

Food and drink to slow the heart

Thicken blood into paste

Turn skin to leather


As your body calcifies

Plastic and perfect at last

You need not ever feel

Weak or sick again

Ring the bell

And let them know

You persist

Ring the bell

So they know

A better man lies buried here

And in time, a better man still

I will sit folded in on myself like a lotus

I will look so far west it seems east

I will paint myself in sap and resin

I will eat needles of saguaro

And buttons of peyotl

And leaves of picietl

And liquor of agave


I am perfect

And if I am never perfect, I will be holy. And if I am not holy, I will be whole. And if I cannot be whole, I will be still. And if I can be nothing, then I will try again in another life.

But I can at least be still

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