"If You End Up in Hell You Better Pray You Didn't Litter"

One way entry,
a student discount,
keep the crowds moving,
and those bitties silent.
A tour of the cells--
the Freud of criminology,
the pedophile of ancient religion,
the drug dealer at recess,
and the schizophrenic
in your mama's bed.

Each brick
and chisel
bang their entrances,
rope their exits,
the storm is coming
and your windows
just
broke.

Your neighbor's child
goes missing in the
bathtub,
your friend's mirror
cuts her wrists,
your uncle's prescription
jumped down his throat.

The storm is here
and waiting for you.
It's hair burns butterflies,
it's tentacles squeeze sunsets,
"When this is all over,"
she promises
"you won't recognize
the beach from
Hades' feet."

It all looks
the same, anyways.
Dry mounds,
rubbery carcasses,
and bricks of metal,
evidence of misdeeds,
awfully painful for
Hades, of course.