Under My World

God I miss hell.
Not hell on Earth
that'll always be with us.
Like our legless, armless, faceless,
IOU'd, IED'd, KIA'd, COD'd.
Just as it's patriotically with
the loved and the boxed,
flagged, unphotographed,
(still counting)
the power and the glory
the shocked and the awed.
No, what I miss, what I write letters to,
is the well-marketed Hell after Earth
I wish I still believed in,
the very exclusive Hell with long lines,
unwelcoming doormen, poor ventilation,
and a very specific reservations list
meticulously adhered to.
If I could believe again,
for mere fragmented moments
I'd sleep in deep peace,
my taxes seductively low,
my sacrifices ridiculously so.
In such dreams I would only eat
free-range chickenhawk
roasted on a spit of bayonets.
Instead I toss & turn
like the waves of Styx
seeing blind architects
and unclearable brush,
piles of gold and silver
irradiated into crucifix,
poisoned by the night touch
of a crescent moon
reaching from a heaven
emphatically unanticipated
and mournfully enraptured.
To believe in this kind of belief
would definitely qualify as 'victory'.
I'm almost sure God told me so;
I hear His tongue inside my IV,
and His touch in every pill
someone maneuvers between my teeth.

by Adam Henry Carriere