what way this sea I crave?
with it\'s thin white lines
it\'s snow-white sheets
that yet to dare my blood to float upon.
it is winter. it is brass. it is me!
I am as old as tin in a room that seldom smiles.
pray god the walking dead
the stuffed fish with heads that creak and crawl
too small to swim through the cognac to a heart.
should I dare to praise each stone I walk upon?
through the socket of a single eye
I have never dared to pry each old tattoo
that fumbles with it\'s fingers
to imaginary friends
where each eye blinks so sais the shallow die.
the gallows pole
the hole into I crawl, the crooked queen
greets me with an epilogue
as written by each unattended thought.
I am neither gaunt nor fat,
nor am I acrobat as I hang myself to dry!
a more heroic side,
who dies first,
the spider or the fly?
I am neither predator nor an easy meat to chew.
it is 2am, this second time I die
with no iron in my blood
no padlock on my jaw to apprehend
the purple stem of cancer in my groin.
write me late December,
decorate my tree
remember me;