Church Lied: Hell is an ’87 Suburban
merged with Arizona summer.
Brimstone air, tar for seats.
My own personal demon, my sister,
Fangs with braces, an inhuman scream
The guide said is was over a mile deep.
Carved over millions of years by one
I wonder about pushing my sister in
We’d certainly never find her.
A rusty bridge bored me, but I had a quarter
and a summer to waste.
Its all it cost to see a dark, flightless animal try
to be something more.
Tumbling, his mouth wide open, screaming
of Alcatraz and seagulls.
My little demon wanted to see,
tugging my leg like gravity.
32 feet per second. 8 blinks.
Lifting my sister, I showed her the other birds.
Everything became an easy drive
Sunburned demons can act like angels when asleep.
Alone enough in the bench seat, watching
Nebraska flash by.
6,000 feet per minute.
Is this how it looked?
Life barreling downward?
I knew his reasons because
thats how we all are, I guess.
Always in a hurry to go home.