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
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