Existential conversations broadcasted over the Earth’s
public service announcements, satellites.
The utilization of imagination is dead like a conversation in Latin.
“Tua pulchra puella” (You are a beautiful girl), I say.
A drunken body snores deep,
a subterranean core-dweller looking for unconscious resolution.
Humorless people in control,
chewing on chowder and the start of the day.
I dodge the power mongers within the hopes of
bought souls from the corner café.
The rotten spirits hand me the skeleton keys to what has already been done.
I’ve been elected to be the next accomplice to the freakshow experience.
The secret code word is “Die.” It will get you into the Suicide Social Convention.
Shared thoughts and repeated conversations with anesthesiologists.
Parked wheelchairs squat in the corners of the hallway’s
Maybe they think that their ride has come.
Their robes and slippers morph into tuxedos and Italian leather shoes.
Top hats for the men. Animal’s fur eternally sleeps on the heads of woman.
It’s like we’re all just squirrels foraging for
another long winter,
junkies with no score.