the sun in the afternoon sky
and yet so much of me
has joined the
other tenants at Forrest Lawn
Death never laughs
nor does He weep
when touching the lives of poets
of mouthwash-literature
brushing by the hollow shells
of broken minds
mimes
laid out in reasonable fashion
to brush with tooth brush
and comb with hair comb
in this planned existence
this subdivision of flesh
And while I tip-toe through
layers of insecurities
the atmosphere of smiles
remains inflated
growing big like puss-filled balloons
