I’m too tired for all of this
the less said about hell the better
with all its really bad radicals daisy-chained to each other
selling off half their souls for a beer factory tour—
for with the hour so late shouldn’t we have left out the tales
we felt too safe or unfazed, that only rerouted us to this table?
the less he hears about heaven even better
with its legions of angels bedding down in his brain
always leaving it a God-damn mess—
for with the hour so late shouldn’t we shelf all the songs
that leave us half-deaf and feathered, fed-up?
the less I read re: earth that much better
with its dearest of creatures all threadbare, uncared-for,
their bodies best eaten rare or returned to the dirt--
for with the hour so late tell me where is the heat worst,
the threat of the over-earnest, the never letting go?
