No I’m Not Happy To Be Alive

by Randall Rogers

neither was Kurt Cobain
and Hemingway at the end and Hunter
and Sylvia
oh thank Lord there’s no guns in the house and they don’t have gas ovens here cuz they don’t
bake things here in Thailand and I’d never icky cut my wrists so no with the knives and the doc won’t give me enough pills or I can’t horde 'em long enough to get enough of 'em to, as they say, "get the job done"

hanging’s out too, what kind of a jerk would do that?
just imagine me dangling at the end of a noose!

No I’ll do my suiciding the old fashioned way
with cigarettes
sex with prostitutes
too much drinking on occasion
non stop pot smoking
and yaa baa (this speed) taking and living the
writer’s bohemian no job life
like other writer guys
that didn’t really take a firm hand in outright killing themselves but
rather let the tar or nicotine
or the booze
the drugs
do the job enjoyably for them.
I throw my liver and lungs and brain
in with that crowd.

I’m not with the blow your head off scene.