the man shot himself
in the bathroom on the third floor
everyone in the house are so busy
talking on the phone
red bubbles of filth
dripping from the dark hole
under his chin, spilling over
the edge of the plastic tub
everyone in the house are still busy
talking on the phone
dialing and cursing, head bowed
in prayers hoping for god himself
to pick up and deliver
his guidance to those who are
still busy screaming and shouting
begging for another story
in their short restless sleep
every frame a painting
every line is poetry.
every day is a good day to start
it all over again, their hearts
beat heavier day by day
in the middle of a pursuit
for perfection, suddenly
everyone is wishing for a gun
he holds it tight, that night
he is Isaac, he is Ishmael
inside the flesh of Abraham
worshiping nothing but death
the man shot himself
the bullet pierce through his skull
straight to the blood sprayed ceiling
a black sun in the red sky
his neck slumped over
the edge of the plastic tub
everyone in the house are too busy
talking on the phone
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