Hell Was the Second Word You Uttered

It’s 9 am
on a Saturday
in April, do you know where

your Please
Kill Me t-shirt
is? Who you were

with the first time
you listened to Chronic
Town all the way through?

Gardening at night
is not always as romantic
as it seems. Mumbling may be

a gift of genius,
or merely of the arrogant
camouflaging an inferiority

complex the size of a bull’s eye
on that t-shirt
in XXXL. Or, it could all be

a joke—the way
we equate enunciating
with the truth.

How To Define Punk to a 12 Year Old (or, Richard Hell at the Soap Factory)

Who lives
in this post-post-modern polyphonic
blitz? Blitz—not
bliss. I love

that anarchy—murder
of the omniscient
narrator. Reliable, or
not. Or,

is it an assassination? Did she
(or he) hold
political office? Or, at least
run? I could be running

to go to Hell
on time. I have a VIP seat, but
I should get
going. Don’t want

to miss a word. Think
of all those voices shouting
out of turn

their individual versions
of what it means
to burn in, burn on,
burn out.