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Hell's not quite the woodland blaze it used to be.
more like a factory fire.
My brother says the devil's more into smells these days...
sulfur dioxide, skunks, socks, rubber plants.
Take a dip in a sewer, he advises,
before you decide to screw someone over.
I'm thinking Hell will be very attractive in its way.
But intangible splendor. Like a vast underworld mirage.
It'll look like heaven but when the eyes, the brain, adjust,
it'll just be alleyways, scrap metal joints, fruit-markets at dusk
So hell's kind of ugly. It's bad taste.
It's clothes picked out for you by your mother.
Elevator music long after the elevator ride is over.
People who won't stop talking.
Since the early 90's, it's been cell phones too.
Hell won't be fire or smell. It'll be more of the same.
Like all the times I told you it felt like hell.
Only now I won't have to say it.
I'm in your parlor waiting for you to apply
the finishing touches to your face. But
you're a queen captured by cannibals. I
can't just browse the newspaper. I have
to creep into the tent at night or crawl
up to the pole they've tied you to,
undo your bonds. Can't waste time
watching TV. I've fallen into their trap.
Ten strong bruisers grab me.
In all the chaos, you've escaped.
I'm the prisoner now. And will you
be coming back for me, I wonder.
Last week, it was renegade Apaches.
The week before, the army of Attila the Hun.
Maybe next time, I'll figure you for the enemy.
Maybe next time, I'll just sweat.
John's latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Journal Of The American Medical Association.