the hungry ghost behind the crunch sound
this is just another bad poem from a mediocre author
who finds peace in life by meditating on the sound
of the clack clack clack of keys on whatever new toy
shes purchased to sedate the melancholy of another winter
and its not so bad because i have seen other poets steal
from the crunch sounds of leaves in the fall
watching their feet as they walk just to remind themselves
we are all above the earth, this death is all below us
and we are taught to survive–to live on like death
is escapable, as though we are but sailors and
the fata morgana of tomorrow is not an illusion at all.
rather, life is worth more than you knew when you took it,
or life is worth nothing more than what existence is worth
what your essence is defined by —
that hole you put in the left side of your skull
and the pieces of your brain that we cleaned from the walls;
so today i stole some parking from a city nearby cos i had no change and
then i borrowed the physical presence of a stranger
cos i need not feel lonely about this anymore and
while we waited for some food i kept the stories to myself
because i’m terrified to buy into the new myth
that we are not dying but surviving, that every sad phone call
is just a dormant cycle in a season much larger than us
comprised of our death and our life which are only figments
of an annal which is much larger than one annual incarnation
but you will not be reincarnated, and just in case
everything i’ve ever believed in turns out to be wrong, again,
i leave carnations in that ugly vase by your grave
so when you wake you have something to salivate for