Enter Earth's Power Yoga

"enter earth's power yoga" The sign wasn't very convincing. I walked past it. fell into a hole in the ground. Fellated by a series of diseased witches. Danced with unrepentant Confederate soldiers. This is my time in Hell. Nixon singles in a run. Castro's on the same team pitching a perfect All Star game but back on earth he's still alive. He died tomorrow. He's just visiting. All the movies are sold out, esoterically the one about me which the demons especially love.

I represent myself; get off on a technicality. Spit back up the whole to ol' Earth.

Hell wasn't so bad, looking back; more like the womb then I woulda guessed. I still don't remember the best parts. But my vantage point was likely skewed. I was so very bored, and alone, and I just wasn't up for Earth's Power Yoga. Just not in the mood, ya know? Maybe if there'd been a better sign. The signs in Hell were all wack, direct you the wrong way as the Fallen Angel is wont to do. But you knew that, going in. I had no idea what to expect from Earth's Power Yoga. Pagans? Heartache? Some hybrid with Pilates or robotics? And I didn't even care. Poor salesmanship. Poor signage. They could learn a thing or two from Hell.

Oh, Hell. I just realized. That sign, "earth's power yoga." That was purely a detour toward the damned. I went after all. I recall some stretching, and some rending of flesh poses, some eternal hellfire salutations. The usual.

Note: now I'm bored again. Damn it. And Hell's actually kind of a bore, when they know you don't belong there. That was the technicality I got off on: not damned; Do Not Belong. Same loophole that makes me an outsider here. But here, there's nowhere to be returned to. Never no going back. No womb at the in, Sonny. No place like home, because home is a fiction like heaven and hell.