Not Thing In Excess

I want a rope, a long colorful rope I can use for anything:
belt, fishing line, clothes line, tow, tie down
noose.
One that will-oh god did you hear that?
That sound which coiled in and distracted me
took me from whatever little arc of hell I walked along
with a babushka pulled down over one eye, pirate purdah,
protecting me, marking me as ghost, apart, not quite there.
As far from the mouth of the world
as John Lennon's killer was from reality.
Yeah, shoot me. Go on, just do it.
So your bitch will love you.
Just like that, I take this rope, this long bit of string and swallow it
with two shots of tequila, hands sticky with lime and salt
hands too numb from what I have to do, as intense as Chernobyl,
as bright as meltdown orange glo in the sky.
I want rope to bind me to all these places,
like a ballerina's jetes waft her across the stage,
fluffernut light, a sweet sticky confection smeared over matzoh sinister truth:
rope will wrap around and around your neck, searching for autoerotic ecstasy,
looking for ways to justify killing you.
I'd take the rope, this rope, with a bit of vintage soul,
and I'd follow it, bits, bytes of long ago, and try to sleep,
not caring about the long lists that remain undone.