Getting a room
at the vacant
Hotel I Don’t Know
is worse than
kissing the lips
of death drunk
from the sweet liquor
in a bloody cough
during the morning of
your decent into hell
counting how many miles
it takes to get you there
on one broken thumb
of a raging fist
beating against your heart
just so you can hold
onto this very last moment
with your one good hand
half-assedly praying
to a god you don’t know
who wished you checked out
would lay your head down
upon the grassy knoll
look to the sky
let your eyes climb
to the top of
Hotel I Don’t Know
where all the tired faces
stare into black windows
that will never know
the affliction of beauty
within your stillness
speaking so softly.