A 2 A.M. Sidenote on a Lesser Individual

Perhaps the wording was wrong?

Line to hook. Hook to worm. Hook to gills.
You ripped that motherfucker out with one thong
pressed for leverage.
No mercy.
At least I got to taste the worm.

Prayers. Butane, and Palm Sweat

Someone once said to me:
"When it hurts,
you know you're alive."
To which I replied:
"It hurts when
you know you're alive."

Go fuck yourself.
I don't need some neerdowell
like yourself
who has failed at
more than I have
to upturn the corners.
I am happy.
I burned note cards with a prayer
carved between the lines.
I screamed to the skies.
I begged for a catastrophe.
Begged.
And pleaded.
I peeled the proof of purchase from
every bottle I drank.
I saved the can tabs.
I saved the bottle caps.
I sold my scrapes to the scrapeees.
I fed my roaches to the wasps.
I threaded needles with a tie off.
I picked solids from snots.
I am everyone of those sitting so patiently
below cross eyes save for the fact that I have yet
to succeed in failing.

Return to Sender

I have mastered the art of seducing a pin tumbler. Excuses tumble off
of the pages as pages divorce the binding. My ears are ringing.
I sleep to the glow of a brightly lit couples only
skate-a-way sign propped cleverly against my
window. My mail comes in stacks wrapped in rubber bands
with no return address. When I say wrapped I mean encased.
I mean more rubber than paper. I mean that karma could sit on it.
Every letter reads the same: "Doesn't it feel great to be alive?"
Each message differs in type. Its strange. I swear I can smell
perfume spritzed on each letter. Something exotic.
I wish I knew the sender.
I want to give you an answer.