I don’t fear death,

I fear missing it.

the end point.

the Period.

more relevant than the dash

–punctuated by racing vermin,

and very little cheese–

death is cessation of orchestrated maze.

(en route or not)

so many do–

–fear death,

and I wonder why. . .

a fellow traveler

without empathy,

I watch them struggle

from the inside out—

questioning the grip

that tightens as all else fails.

Death is the letting go–

the loose of mounting woe,

the good night sleep

that eludes–

death is ease.

Inevitable return to the source,

and quintessential reunion.

 
I attempted to

pull myself up

by my bootstraps—

but discovered I was

wearing

loafers,

and I sought to keep it in perspective,

but my camera switched

to selfie mode

–in and of itself, terrifying—

and my dysmorphia deepened,

and I tried to brush it off

shoulders

–squaring—

(2)

but my Roomba

(with a view)

had hella strong force,

and I was obliged

to suck it up instead.

 
after catching so

many flies

–with baited breath—

sick

it was a wonder the drumroll

didn’t precede a rimshot,

the build-up wasn’t

on teeth dba feet

–in gum space–

and the hoopla

didn’t signal

circus tricks

–a 70’s trend

so un PC–

but resolve of will,

in 1 direction.

 
 
There wasn’t enough

glue to fix

that kind of Krazy

but you could mask it

in Scotch

–plenty of it—

enough to send those demons

packing—

taped and tacked with

all thumbs,

a full ten or more

skimming

make-believe tomes

comprising library

pasted to wainscoting

–lifelike prints of

prints

imprint–

mimicking shelves.

 
 
rocks frolic

in the surf,

and shadows attach

to unfettered heel

–pretending ownership—

I
 
 
push through break

at shoreline

–angelic cur a stone-faced foreground

to cliffs that play dead

festooned in scaffolding

the teetering planks

cage façade and

dissembling,

I dismantle. . .

deconstructing

the architecture

of death

–instead of bread–

examine pain

pulsing

& flamboyant,

consuming

& unconsumed,

denuding

& gutted

–the wood drifts

from my hands

aware of fetching opportunity

the while long

–gulls circle—

on unseen thermals

paragliding without

billow.