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