Richelle Lee Slota

Hard Work Damned on the Road to Extinction

by Richelle Lee Slota

I have this condition called

Life killing me.

Botched self-repairs,

All hammer no nail,

Hard work damned

On the road to extinction.

Doctors accuse me of my age,

Patch the cracked foundation,

Unpack the attic brain,

Prop up the collapsed floors, walls,

Probe the corroded plumbing,

Jolt the diesel generator’s ventricular tachycardia.

“How fast can you get here?”

I stare at the doctor’s voice on the phone:

Stare at the IV, stare at the chatty nurse shaving

My groin hair, stare at the surgeon saying,

“We’re gonna put a Ferrari in your chest.”

My gurney descends into the cold

Operating room, to a Propofol cocktail swoon.

Lights-out, lights-on and a confused return

To Telemetry, to my odd-implanted defibrillator,

To my hard of hearing heart failure

With a bad liver roommate snoring.

He wakes, complains of enforced sobriety.

“When I die,” he proclaims, “let there be

No full bottles around.”

I wonder how many friends will drink at my wake.

How many old, old, old, old friends will drink?

Maybe 4. I can’t conceive of more.

Certainly not less. If not 4 at least 3. If not 3 at least 2.

If not 2 at least 1. I can’t conceive of less.

Oh, dear, I hope not less.

I hope not no one.

Please not no one.

I fear no one.

Maybe 2 of my 3 children, maybe.

Some ex-girlfriend might sign

The funeral guestbook, and all my vengeful ex-wives.

I have this condition called

Life killing me.

Botched self-repairs

All hammer no nail

Hard work damned

On the road to extinction.

The Lonely Planet Guide to Death

by Richelle Lee Slota

Nobody travels there

without getting there,

somewhere beyond the poisoned

air, the squalid cities,

my loving family living

amidst a million cooking fires

in the once-so-lush,

Ghanaian Rain Forest.

The last stop wasn’t Death,

only a year called Seventy.

Other passengers offer

the conundrum, Death is life.

No one has a clue,

When, where Death is,

exactly. My guidebook

has blank pages.

The only one who knows

for sure is the killer.

Some Things That I Learned in the Army:

by Richelle Slota

Children bleed.

Politicians don’t bleed.

There are some things in my life

I should have walked away from.

My father was right about officers.

My father was wrong about women.

A go-go dancer from Memphis

taught me how to make love.

Sergeant Clark taught me how to kill.

Leftover body parts go in the incinerator.

Refrigerate the lighter ones

in the top trays, the children.

I Live the Life I Choose

By Richelle Slota

If this burns bridges, I have matches.

Flames light the way that joy unlatches.

Jerks study hurt, know where to grope.

The mob shouts insults, shits on hope.

They get no answer, get back no hate,

get all my quiet absence late.

Death House

By Richelle Slota

“I want it expensive, you don’t understand,”

said the old man, hunched in a wheelchair,

sucking oxygen, his thin, heavily veined hand

fluttering like a black and blue butterfly,

“Cool,” said the contractor who used to be

a hair stylist. “I can make it expensive.”

The old man coughed. “I want the equestrian barns

hand-built by Amish carpenters, the formal gardens,

the stocked ponds, the covered terraces, the libraries,

the tennis courts, the glass-tiled infinity pools,

I want the gravel paths, the quarters for seven-full-time staff,

the over-sized guest houses, the eight-car garage,

the Jerusalem limestone surfaces, the billiards rooms,

the hand-carved Honduran mahogany grand staircases,

I want the frosted Chihuly hand-blown-from-the-glory-hole

chandeliers, the 18^th century unicorn chests,

the onyx sinks, the sunken tubs, the chef’s caliber kitchens,

the steam room, the whole house automation,

I want the curated art installations, the fully stocked

champagne cellars, the sound-absorbing cork floors,

the super-whisper condensers, the triple-stage motors

that move air in silence.” He paused, “This will be my last move.

This will be my death house.”