Work Text:
1.
Ask Dean what Hell is
and he tells it like it is
no hagiography, no spangled lace-froth
of adjectives--only verity
veracity,
clarity, like cancer of the soul.
They say he has a simplicity
about things that are not simple, about
gods
monsters
brothers
and Hell is a super-nova, Hell can fit
in the pocket of your jacket
the heart of your brother
under your tongue
everywhere
Hell is a parsec, a fibre in quark-foam
Hell is a gluon and Hell is a red-giant
Hell will lick your bones clean and
give you
clarity, like cancer of the soul.
Dean will tell you
like it is.
Be sure to keep both legs
beyond the pentagram.
Demons will lie, will try
to spill your blood
to buy your soul
to stack the family
in one wagon, like Black Death victims
all limbs arranged
neatly together
dangling vessels
separate from hearts.
You have our disclaimer.
Read carefully before investing.
2.
The Styx is cold
you can call it what you want
vaitarini
sanzu
the river of Hell has very many names
but this is only the first--
there are seven more.
Hold onto your bones
because you can.
Only here.
When I row you to the Phlegethon
they will
bubble
break free
split to give:
cells, atoms, miniscule things
(Do bones have DNA?
Cop shows never taught me that.)
They are only calcium after all
we burn with a thousand uranium suns.
No coolants for our chain reaction.
(The truth is
I will rescue you.
Flay open your skin
to pick at your sins)
Hey, you will get hurt.
It's not my fault
in 1969, you killed a hippy girl
choked her
mauled her
murdered her
and she with a peony on her lips
last you saw her
your sister.
What do you call it,
the killing of a sister?
Don't try to jump in the river.
I am good at fishing.
I have bait.
Listen.
I had a brother.
I was the roadrunner to Hell's coyote
Acme finally did its job--
(-- not on me--)
I signed a lease
(--because Sammy--)
now the coyote
chews me up
spits me out
chews me up
spits me out
rinse, repeat
washing machine cycle
too many coins in the Laundromat
Sixth-Sense Technology
(wash me till I'm atom-clean)
I had a brother.
You killed your sister.
There is a sad poetry here
between us
I seek to forget
through violence.
Can I interest you with some pomegranate seeds?
Hell offers you permanent lodging.
We are Grecian in our hospitality.
3.
Hey there. Hi. Hey.
You get to ask a question.
Who am I?
Why, I am:
ridiculous
unlovely
what is left
once a nuclear inferno
has razed the ground
Play-doh-malleable
tawdry
glittering cheapskate jewelry.
I tell it like it is.
It is my flaw.
They can't take it out of me.
I tell you:
entropy will take us all
in the end.
Unravel, unthread
He is the needle that unspools us.
Mass-produced, cookie-cutter
All-American male.
Our own
Kansas-born Messiah
Don't scoff at me--
listen now, it's a prophecy.
I am still figuring out
where we went wrong.
(Where I--
Where he--)
Till then Hell is:
too many 1940s chicks
liars and programmers
copyright infringers
poachers with animal tusks--
through their small intestines
like pearls through flesh
--angry misguided demons--
shoving deadbeat soul-heads into
non-literal toilets.
--angry fallen stars--
rattling their cages
unmindful of their own brightness
men with brothers
men with dead sisters
men--
(women too--
here at last that willful monster
--equality--
is cornered. We sin alike,
who knew?)
Hell gives you
clarity, like cancer of the soul.
We do not categorize
(or cauterize)
We are expanding.
The universe, the cosmos, the metaphysical
cthonic underground.
We are expanding,
unthreading,
our matter-energy equation
will not hold for long.
We will burn.
Cease.
And I will be the only phoenix.
The only one looked for.
He knows.
I know.
Listen now, it's a prophecy.
Take comfort.
I will row.
You just focus
on keeping your bones.
Easy to lose things here.
Bones, brains, memory.
I tell it like it is.