Death Everyday

Death sits a top his moist brain.
It’s black letters
fuse with the gray matter,
seeping into
the dark corners
of his thoughts,
taking over his life:
work, friends, conversations.

I know it’s all he thinks about.
He’s told me so.
I don’t know what to do.
I wish I could bring
a noose over to his house.
I know he’d stick
his head into it willingly.
Then I’d drag him
like a dog on a leash
to a psychiatrist’s office
where they’d fix him.

“Please drag your
reluctant patient
into bay number three,
we’ll have him fixed
and ready to go by noon.”

I know it’s not that simple.
They can’t just power-wash
the black rot of death
from his brain
and then return him
as good as new.

There’s the whole
free will thing, but man
you’ve gotta do something
about this death stuff,
it’s killing me.


In his dingy, cluttered living room
solidly laying on his left side
head propped up by his arm
he stares out the abnormally
long window as afternoon people pass
not stopping to look past their reflection.
The gathering window dust protects
his wide yellow t-shirt and underware clad body
from shame he once knew, but never cared for.
His ashtray keeps time as it sits near on the couch
fingers blindly probe it for the remnants
of the morning’s escape.
Finding it, his head drops
with relief, onto the couch.
He quickly brings the joint to his lips,
his sweet smelling escape opened by flame
he watches cars blur and the divorce the bills
the scheduled visits the awkwardness.
It all fades.


days disappear
occasionally marked
by the rare need
for clean clothes
or the extremely slow
passing of a bar
of soap
spaced in accordance
with exertion
he wakes
he sleeps
he wakes
cable gone
cut off
he wakes he sleeps he wakes he bakes he sleeps
the heat is gone
he lights his joint
thank you depression
for the
to live
a life
are not

The Light

Belly full of sweet excess
Bought excess, bought discomfort
Currency exchanged for the brown bottle
Excuses bought and paid for.
I drink
My lips touch numbness
and my throat opens to freedom.
Freedom from the pain
of banging my head against the burning bulb.
Freedom from the freedom
of truth.

I join the winged, self-proclaimed
seekers of the burning light
banging their thousands
of receptors against the glass…
longing to break through
and feel the heat
of truth.
Waiting to hear the fierce crackle
of fragile wings as they
are so lovingly,
so longingly consumed
by the almighty power of the flame.

You were always so sure
when you opened your Bible
that God gave you those verses.
You know,
the ones that fucked me up,
that are killing my liver.
So, God spoke to you,
Wait -
Like an old testament prophet,
truth rolled down from on high?
Was it God that told you
your children were abused?
And your husband
had been with
every woman in your church?
Was it God that told you
your husband was in the mafia
in your town of 3,000?
And it was you
that let everyone know.

Your children knew
too much, too young
you told them
they had been touched
by their father.

Mother, are you ill?

The great deceptor
twisted into its socket
sucking volts
from some mystery that limits us.
Knowing we will never know
lights the flame.
Buzz buzz silly fucked up thing
drink and buzz, buzz
and bang your head into the bulb.
Chase your truth.

I chase mine
with beer.

And answer me -
How was I supposed know sanity
if I was never exposed to it?
Answer me -

Jason Fisk lives in Chicago with his wife, daughter, and two dogs.
He is currently teaching at a residential school populated by students
who have been identified with emotional and behavioral disorders.
You can visit his website at jasonfisk.com

© 2006 Underground Voices