My Coffin

If it must have color,
make it clover,

like water
that’s been somewhere,

like water
with its bad friends.

I know a coffin
carved for good reason:

a drunk
that doesn’t warm,

a woman, in Texas,
leaving her son.


You be man, you sleep in.
Sleep till it hurts. Then some
more then.

The dog though
wake early in the morning.
Don’t know it’s morning.
Just that sun, like his anger,
there again.

And when he bark
he bark at you, wrapped in bed,
like uh fajita, he imagines,
not even knowing what it is—

growling at trees; the eventual
way you look in mirror.

Mr. Meister

If God is him who invented Him,
then I am drowning with your eyes
open. No reflection beneath
the surface. No probing.
No, Nothing is not dying.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: