May the burning embers twirl around your mustachio
and become a river itching itself into a fit of melancholia,
while the pumpkins with metal teeth
snap at the Christ-like pomegranates.
And when the eternal crying begins,
may the faces without eyes suddenly profess,
“My God, I have no idea how you found me!”
This while we read from the papers
our names written backwards in the headlines–
a collection of toys wound up so tight
that we spring to the edge of the world,
and never come back again.
IN THE SICK HOUSE
with all the sickos lying in their own bodies
waiting for someone to turn them over,
set a place for them in the burning world.
Doctor, I said, let’s feed this one to Dino
as I believe there’s still a little meat on his bones.
To which he nodded and snapped his fingers
for the guards to hop right to it.
Dino now weighs 427 pounds and counting
while every day we’re pocketing a little bit more from the state
that thinks we’re getting ‘em ready to join the ranks of the living
somewhere beyond the walls.