Pushing Upward



And see me sometime.

See me dead, deader, deadest.

Dead like only a poet could be.

Rotting, rotten, spoiled,

Shriveled, gone, kicked the

Bucket, pushing up… [But I'm

Not cute enough for daisies]

Be still for I'm dead.

Dry, withered, and fading away.

Yet I'm frightfully alive.

I have a life in stasis, a

Mind locked away in a tower

[Could be in London… or

Moscow], a love in... love.

"You'll never have to worry

By your lonesome."

So sweet.


There will be several of us

Pacing, biting our nails,

Pulling our hair, gnawing on

Gum, mints, cigarettes

Each other's lips.

Why can't I let me go?

I'll need some provisions:

A shovel


Trash bag(s)

One of those pine tree

Fresheners for the trunk.

I'd bury myself to be born

Again; if I wasn't allergic to

The earth.

I'd deal with my darkness if

It wasn't so plentiful.

[Just like I'd deal with my

Light. Cherish. Make love

To, with, for, the light]

And that was why Mondays

Were invented.

Moons. Mons. Lunas...

Reinvent myself so that I

Can be in phase with my world

Instead of

Staring hopelessly at it.

I'll be dead sometime

Soon [next Monday].

And then.

And then I'll just have to

Worry by my lonesome.

But I won't have to if I

Revive myself by...

Does Tuesday work for you?