it would all make much more sense if we were dead.
it all seems simpler then -
the cards, the crying, the choirs.
shades drawn, dawn painted in
shadowy depth along the window's sides,
and phone calls from relatives.

"how are you?"
well, i'll tell you,
i've been fine.
what about this weather?
how are the kids? they aren't dead yet,
are they?

well, good -
for them, for you. it's good for us.

death isn't half a hindrance
for the ink stained, the paint bludgeoned
freaks of heaven.
death doesn't pay disability.
important men know better than that ruse,
'cause if death paid outright
the streets would sink with the weight
of all these suicides...
cave in towards the center of warmth
in the heart of the world
where we pretended to make work of.

i wonder who could cash that
currency of the dead.
liquor stores, maybe.
coffee shops should corner the check cashing
business too. haul in
that crowd.
you know. the ones
with the ash makeup, steel-toes,
burning by candle-light
while the rest of the corpses
sink into magma as it slides up
from the sewer pipes
and takes with it
the American Dream
the Confederate dream
and the power of my attorney.

..ashes to ashes..dust to dust..

that is very WELL WRITTEN