Weakened in Hell

The doors open for you easily, like a hungry mouth begging for a supper.

A long tongue unrolls, freshly seared with the words

ALWAYS WELCOME.

But as you take two steps through

the doors slam shut like the angry thighs of a 20 dollar whore

who's just been informed that you've inadvertantly misplaced your billfold.

 

So hell, here you are.

 

You plop down in a big overstuffed chair and try to block out those infernal

jungle rhythems of Barry Manilow over the loudspeakers, when the phone starts

to ring,

"Hello, P.L.O.…"

It's a girl you used to know.

She asks, "How are you?," you say,

"I'm in a hell of a place."

She asks, "How's your life," you say,

"I'm having a hell of a time."

You ask if you can see her again, she says,

"Sure, when hell freezes over."

 

Then she tells you that she left something with you.

Something she needs.

Something she misses.

You laugh.

She screams,

"Just put it in an envelope and mail it back, Jack."

 

"Angel," you say, "there's no postal service in hell, but I guess you wouldn't

know much about that."

You slam the phone. Ah, peace and quiet in hell.

And as the elastic snaps back, you lose track of all those years that nodded by

in a single wink. That quiet "cool" starts to rise up from your toes lightly

falling upon your body like the tender kisses of a lover,

lost but hardly forgotten.

But just as you begin to feel the familiar warmth of that cold sweet sweat

trickling down your brow, the phone starts ringing, and ringing, and you know

it's her and you know what she wants so you grab the cord and yank it from the

wall, but the phone's still ringing and Barry's still singing about all the

fucking songs he claims to have written.

So you run into your room and creak open that old hope chest you keep by your

bed, filled with all the lost dreams

from all the lost people

who swore with passion that they always would,

but of course when the end came, never could.

 

So you reach down deep, farther than you ever dreamed you could go, and you

find what she lost and you find what she needed. You stuff it into an envelope

and slide it through a slot in the door and as it hits the dirt on

the other side,

 

The phone stops ringing

Barry stops singing

You feel better.

 

You walk over to the table and look down at the mirror.

You see myself staring back with line 'cross your face like some crazy roadmap

running off to nowhere.

You feel tired now.

You think you can sleep,

and perhaps when you awake

the fires will subside in this place that you hate.

And the chains will unchain

and the locks will unlock,

And perhaps your doors will open for you tomorrow

 

1988