Your pulse, a high-interest loan of carbon and spit; A frantic strobe light in a collapsing pit.
Kick off the shoulds, those leaden, orthopedic boots. Stop watering your plastic at the roots.
Why offer a no vacuum-sealed and dried To a joy that’s finally hitched a ride?
Among a billion ghosts in rented skin, Clutching leaking bowls, still wondering where the soup has been.
And the soil, yes, a blind, impartial, gluttonous gut; Digesting the Great and the Who? and the What? It mulches throne and beggar’s cup Into a patch of manic, lovely grass.
Don’t worry, the prince and the fool are the same shade of clover, Once the lease on their breathing is officially over.
Take a breath, take a breath; Life’s the only thing that’s not like death.
Graffiti your name on a passing gust of wind; The only sin is staying neatly pinned.
Ignite the ego, the hemp, the existential spark (Light a match under your own backside if your world seems too dark);
It’s too cramped (ouch!) in the coffin to start playing the part.
