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By Misti Date: 2004 Apr 12 Comment on this Work [[2004.04.12.18.49.11127]] |
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This soon after Easter Sunday, attending the service at a Methodist church with the man I love, I can safely say that I know the dimensions and depth and balcony view of HeLL. I've been through it and around it and over it and under it approximately three thousand times in 31 years but I have a faulty memory. Today I have clarity. Today I have a postcard of the one true HeLL, residence of Hitler and Bukowski and Abbey and Miller and Blake and Plath, taped to my cubicle. It ain't none too purty, Pilgrim. Hell is falling in love with the best poet you've ever read and getting to know his whimsy and sarcasm and fragility and holiness through late night/early morning ICQ chats and deciding nothing will do but for you to drive to his house and kidnap him and make him yer bitch fer life. Hell is that...and then losing what you never had to begin with because another poet stole onto the scene and made you think he was your only hope. He sent you roses and diamond earrings and reasons to sing in April showers. He promised you everything you ever wanted but didn't get because you were standing in gym showers being pelted with tampons. So you chose...Bachelor #2. The sure thing. Instant Daddy. Er...Instant Husband, rather. Damn Electra complex. Hell happened that way and is that way now because you are divorcing the one you married out of hope and anemia and bad asthma attacks. Hell is going on outside the window because your husband won't let you go because God says it is not kosher. You do not get everything you want, you snotty little brat. He is God's suddenly. The Lamb's Book of Life and alla that. He is dripping sacred blood, the kind that keeps a man outta hell. Do not lean into your own understanding, you moron. We are all morons. We are all worms. We are all lucky God knocked up Mary and she gave birth to a beautiful bouncing baby savior who would decide at age 33 to die for you and me on a tree on Calvary so that we could reside with Him for eternity in the place seven miles up the road from HeLL. HeaVeN. So. He will find a church home and the benevolence of your family and God and John the Baptist and Paul and whoever the fuck else has any say in the matter. You will suffer and writhe in HeLL, loving another man. A man you cannot have. You will learn how to get to Alaska or Oregon from here. With no money in your black leather jacket pockets and no gas in your car. Maybe you will be a prostitute. Some of Jesus's best friends were prostitutes. Maybe you will be a fisher, but not of men. HeLL is blooming with pretty candy skulls and poisoned gardens. You are inhaling bad fumes. Toxicity. Toxic City. Welcome to it, babeee. |