Death in Los Angeles
Apathy climbing into you
from Skid Row, or Santa Monica,
or CSUN.
It appeals to you, asking
for money, alcohol, beauty,
double barrel shotgun that shoots bullets of love.
Your hand, a whore
or a saint, innocent and devout, blind and bound
the prisoner you know.
That is how death finds you.
It always asks, Are you happy?
Are you empty? Are you ready?
So I feel through the darkness
I kill myself gradually like HIV inside of a fresh host.
Flies all around me
I live with death
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