buried feelings & cut flowers

Caskets are not the path to dreams,
unless three grimy dwarfs with pine oars
and thin purple irises leap up from  the dust
 draw the patent leather curtains of wasted youth
shut off the dingy tunes in the parlor, crank
the electric organ, mold a fortress from pillows
and mattresses, and finally
stitch the houseplants into a canopy.

If chance or drugs bind you to this
most unlikely eventuality, first remember
Einstein & God playing dice together
then leap into that maple embrace
both feet, both hands, both ears,
raise each caterpillary brow,
open each wafery eyelid, and repent
merrily for the erotic fantasy that will assuredly ensue
-- there are no alternatives to any death
except this melange of mirage and mindlessness.