The morning
is a heavy resistance movement of the ragged,
fortifying
the corrosion of every small, pitiful unit of time
with fragments of dreams & body;
with slow steps in a barefoot hallway

The clock is already too little,

and out in the yard gathers a murmuring crowd
of apprehensions

Death is fat & vain;
perhaps expecting something grand & magnificent,
but will do just fine
with any mundane routine;
a couple of glossy-coated kittens storming the heavens
through the house
and a line of unimpeachable age reasons

The transience we crave;
the impermanence we long for,
may furnish a hollowed-out living with darkness in the tunnel,
while the shabby, worn-out entrails may hiss & gurgle
in consensus
at the end of the day

The last buzz of the housefly
in October’s window ledge
becomes, moreover, a splendid Schwedisches Requiem;
intermittent, broken into long pauses,
without any rumbling timpani

I am still the fruit
of the phantasms of a raging whim
and an unfathomable number of supernovae’s cascading vomit

Existence is perhaps, when all is said and done,
a pissant & a day fine