Turning Into a Carcass Slowly

The beauty of truth shriveled and spit Like July 4th snakes, dying on the sidewalk My eyesight is going, but I don’t think I lie My shingles are back, expressing anger and pain My flesh house is crumbling I will not be sorry when it dies The smells of old age parade around in my house Sneering and poking their fingers at me Reminding me of the smell of garbage piles of Pomona I always hated old people. Their wrinkles, age spots, blue veins Especially their smells I watch myself turn into a carcass It is taking longer than I had hoped I never took a pill before And now here I am, a pothead With bad teeth, and black holes In a mouth no one hears