Serotonin

All you need is a tube
and your slim mint Spyder
will become a widow—
fat, black and
sated with you

white lilies to hold
in your backseat coffin,
your face more
shocked
than the bleached afternoon.

I pound

the glass of your condition–
a quarantine
self-imposed.

Until your limbs
wake you to drive

and leave your name
calling you.

“Maybe this is home”

In case you haven’t heard about it: Huffington Post Article

And because I haven’t stopped thinking about it:

Now—
you’re out of the car,
and running, stumbling,
rolling down sandy slopes
on the face of Arizona, the hills
pockmarked with nubs
of weeds and grass
that snap and crack beneath
your second-hand sneakers.
Your lungs must be hammers,
they knock you as you breathe,
because you’re running,
still running,
and all the time you’re hearing
thoughts of your gun.

On metal wings they haunt above– the cameras
zoom, pan out, trace
every thrash that you make,
as you make it. Their red lights watch,
record, listen
to the thoughts that make you stop,
reach in,
pull out—
fall.

“Taking a left now. Car no longer on road—
maybe this is home.”
The anchor’s voice is radio-smooth.
“Now this— this scares me.
He’s looking erratic, isn’t he?
It’s always possible a guy is on something,”
he wonders, until
you fall.
“Get off,”
he says.
“Get off,”
he tries again, but
too late.
The five second delay
is live on airwaves–

“Get off it!” he screams.

There’s too great an irony
in death on live TV.