Hell in a Hand Basket

First it was Panama; then New Zealand.
I just want to be somewhere else.
I thought: this place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

But I didn’t quite leave.
Panama had a downturn.
New Zealand didn’t seem quite to want me.
But still I thought: going to Hell in a hand basket.

And as a year went by, and then another,
I fell quiet. Desperate, but quiet.
And so it bubbled, on a mental back burner:
Get out. This place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

And then you, with your roiling enthusiasms,
exclaim: “I am so happy to be here!”
And you tell me (hinting, really)
That here you feel like a person!

So now I imagine a place
Where throughout one’s life, all one knows of horizons
Is the tattered, woven lip of the hand basket.
And your singing is of the approved variety.

And I consider that perhaps
We have not really been weaving that hand basket.
And perhaps
This is not Hell.

January 13, 2011, Los Angeles
 

Hell in a Hand Basket

First it was Panama; then New Zealand.
I just want to be somewhere else.
I thought: this place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

But I didn’t quite leave.
Panama had a downturn.
New Zealand didn’t seem quite to want me.
But still I thought: going to Hell in a hand basket.

And as a year went by, and then another,
I fell quiet. Desperate, but quiet.
And so it bubbled, on a mental back burner:
Get out. This place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

And then you, with your roiling enthusiasms,
exclaim: “I am so happy to be here!”
And you tell me (hinting, really)
That here you feel like a person!

So now I imagine a place
Where throughout one’s life, all one knows of horizons
Is the tattered, woven lip of the hand basket.
And your singing is of the approved variety.

And I consider that perhaps

Hell in a Hand Basket

First it was Panama; then New Zealand.
I just want to be somewhere else.
I thought: this place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

But I didn’t quite leave.
Panama had a downturn.
New Zealand didn’t seem quite to want me.
But still I thought: going to Hell in a hand basket.

And as a year went by, and then another,
I fell quiet. Desperate, but quiet.
And so it bubbled, on a mental back burner:
Get out. This place is going to Hell in a hand basket.

And then you, with your roiling enthusiasms,
exclaim: “I am so happy to be here!”
And you tell me (hinting, really)
That here you feel like a person!

So now I imagine a place
Where throughout one’s life, all one knows of horizons
Is the tattered, woven lip of the hand basket.
And your singing is of the approved variety.

And I consider that perhaps
We have not really been weaving that hand basket.
And perhaps
This is not Hell.

We have not really been weaving that hand basket.
And perhaps
This is not Hell.

 

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