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Poem

yet they thrive.
there's no other way: they like the soap opera.
subliminal, it opens a hole in their brains.
then they sleep lobotomized,
to wake up lambs with stale bread in the morning,
happy and huddled together on the train heading to the slaughterhouse.
Carpe Dien, says the old woman that saw the movie.
everything is worth it when the soul is not small, burp the fat.

the man shakes, squeezes, pushes, sneezes and falls 
out of the composition.
later with his hands constricted 
he'll be on the graveyard ridge,
in that blue suit that mom gave...

(the flowers have that seasick smell 
and no birds follow the procession).

the dead man's dreams are spiraling 
like the smoke of that one's cigarette:
leaves the crooked mouth and rises through the air, 
disappearing in front of the leafless tree, 
going to pollute more the atmosphere of hidden tensions, 
of the agonies that came to nothing.
a bark wakes the gravedigger.
here we go!

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