either death nor life
people always
complain
to
me
about
writer’s block
& i don’t understand
this phenomenon
a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter
which i don’t actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it
resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys
maybe they wouldn’t be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote
but no, they neither
see death
nor
life
_________
well maybe not so good
i can
feel
it
shifting
if
i
really
quiet
myself
this hour
week
month
year
these people
these places
shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning
this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present
turning
into
the
proverbial
“good
old
days”
___________
in between atrophy and a pine box there are cages
i don’t know
what’s worse:
the medical field
feeding off
people’s fear
of dying
or
the funeral
business
taking advantage
of people’s
loss
or
in
between
staving off
shitting
our pants
& shelling out
for our own
box-in-a-hole
the
powers
that fucking be
making
us
all
pay
dearly
to
stay
out
of
those
human
fucking
cages
