This Hell has your Nameplate on it

                                                                                                          (For C.B)And there you are Hankstuck in that hot ass stuffy roomwithout so much as a beeror a smoke with all those miserable smug little 3^rd rate poetsthat were always calling you at all hoursshowing up at your doorstep with bags of beerwith a spiral notebook full of their latest shitty poems.And the ones who wrote you long impassionedletters about how nobody wanted to print their stuffand how their “stuff” was as good as your “stuff”or anybody else’s “stuff” printed last month inendless small presses that nobody ever heard about except themselves. No.There’s no escaping this one.No ducking out earlyaround the corner for a cold bottle of reliefand maybe a ballgame, a horse race, something on TVor  anything good on the jukeboxor even a stray hooker who was bored and was looking for a little conversation. Back in the old days on earthafter you finally got luckyand publishedand had acquired just enough reputationto lecture at universities and overseasholding court at good paying gigsjust enough celebrity to be able tolive pretty damn comfortablyand could tell them all to go straight to hell. Man.Just guess where you ended upand with who ???  So nowYou’re really fucking stuckIn eternity no lesswithout so much as a picket prose fence sentencebetween you and their sorry astral asses. And of course they still love you.Well some of them.The rest, the other halfhate you.Because they blame you for wastingtheir lives following your dreamand not their own. And yes.They know every line you’ve ever written.Every single word by heart.And in between their newest poem aboutspending eternity in unrealized glory,they recite one of yoursas they follow you around all over hellat all hours into every smoldering fucking corner. Is this poetic justice, Hank ? You would sadly have to shakeyour head in agreement here. You always wrote about the infinity of paybacksthat awaited us all for better or for worseone day.. Just one more last trip to the track.Forget a Trifecta.You’d settle for just onemore muggy hung over afternoonwith the betting card in your handeither up a couple of bucksor your wallet in the crapperknowing there was at leastwhen it was all overyou could always count ona ride back home on the coast highwayback to your quiet apartmentwith a little classical music on the radioa bottle of wineand your “typer” all set up ready to roll.  Instead it’s hard now to see anything there for youexcept the light towers being extinguishedin sequence silentlyone by oneas the chilly fog from the Pacific rolls across the darkened infieldafter the last race and you walk down theconcrete corridor of the exit tunnelwith all the losing betting slips scattered across the concreteof hell like 2 dollar rose petals.