i read
other people’s poetry.
i listen
to the ambient sound of humans existing
muffled by auto glass
and a loose exhaust

the pink/orange nuclear dawn of suburban sprawl dusk
coaxing silhouettes out of everything

i’ve been eating nothing but cheesecake all week
because im bleeding.
marijuana, a little vodka.
the neighbor dropped dead a couple days back;

‘Can you believe that?’
my mother says
‘They said he’d been laying there for a while, and we were outside taking that stuff to the trash. Didn’t see him the whole time. Isn’t that creepy?’
i turned. opened my mouth to speak
just the silent image of an old man’s body bouncing three fucking times
then tumbling to a sudden halt, bare ass upward to the world
in a final word

i wanted to say
that it wasn’t the first dead body i’d been within a few yards of recently.
that it didn’t really bother me;
its just zen.

but im not sure
what that says about either of us,
so i let it be.


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