Crop Circles

Do we always land
where we began:

baby steps, the toes
so fat they seem
platonically related to the body,
toddling through
water glass-beaded grass
leaving tender prints.

Teenagers thrusting
through tall grass:

leaping then lying down–
rushed love-making
before they are discovered,
getting chiggers where
chiggers should never be.

Autumn has turned to winter,
I look upon straw rotting in the field
with the Reaper’s breath a whisper away.

Is this where I am going,
or merely where I’ve been?

Premonition

Premonition

Past that
neuron-shutting-down-synapses-firing
light display that comes with brain death;
you know, the one most
call an invitation to heaven,

I’m talking months past that
when skin tightens drum-taut
but other parts loosen like primordial gelatin
that squirms with the microbes and maggots
that break down
to build up again.

Somewhere in the grayish-green
miasma once my brain
a bubble of gas surfaces then
exits
through my eye socket.

Its element discharging path sparks the best poem
in history

and I don’t have a pen.

At My Funeral

 

 

You always expect
a bigger turnout,
don’t you?

I mean,
human ego is what it is,
but deep down you somehow think
you’ve influenced
              someone
along the way.

A lost love.
A friend.
Was my life really so desolate?

Elder relatives creak by the coffin,
their hips
clanking like rusted armor
and skin
sheer as an armoire
that’s lost its veneer.

They keep repeating “She looks JUST LIKE her father.”

I try my damnedest to suck in my penis.

Humor is lost on the living.

I open my mouth to guffaw
but my teeth feel like rows of tombstones

and my breath reeks of decaying dreams.

Good Days & Bad

 

 

 

“When you look long into an abyss, the abyss looks into you.”—–

Friedrich Nietzsche

At fourteen,
having lived forever and suffered atrocities,
suicide seduced me.

Black as used oil,
life was a cesspool that bubbled pain
and saturated me.

Seven attempts later,
success seemed satirical.

Now,
I look in my mirror.
The wrinkles are few,
but they fracture my face,
and for every coiled gray hair I pluck
a new bush sprouts like crabgrass.

Oxygen alludes me
and I can see Death approaching like a brutish troll.

I run into old friends at the pharmacy,
me huffing and hobbling
and clinging to my cane
like if I didn’t have it, I would disappear.

They say “Remember the good old days…”

I wish someone had told me
as a child
that those were the best days of my life
as I was being
raped.

 

Gaggle of Babble or AMA

Gaggle of Babble or AMA

I’ve landed in the ICU,
and just outside my glass door,
the flock of nurses clusters, whispering.

Some is about me, and some is about someone being openly bisexual…
which could also be me, but I’ve not had time to flirt with any of them.
The window reveals things both ways.

Sure makes for an awkward beginning to this relationship.
AMA seems promising in my congested thought-state,

but it won’t make me better
or erase the words that can never be unspoken.

Death is a masterful marauder, always a few steps behind.

I wonder if there is a HOLY SHIT alarm
because all the regular ones just go ignored…

AH yeah, there it is….that is good to know.

In the sudden quiet,
I recalculate the palpable settings where
less is expected of me.

Given my laziness,
this could be a bonus.

Flipping through the channels on TV,
I notice you get far more channel choices
when you are dying.