Buzzed boys burn like oil
drinking matches in the tin oven
of the Earth. Death is masculine—
not a frail Grim Reaper
pop-cultured into oblivion on
rock albums and motorcycle promos.
He claws through steel and wood
with bronze arms and thighs,
binges on thumping pulses
and devours tattooed peach corpora
in the volcano of his mouth,
sometimes slow like an iron smelt
or quick like the flash of a car bomb,
a puff of air and then limbless orange.
Tell me why a morgue's cloth
enshrouds this one's eyes,
like a towel blotting a tongue.
Tell me, like an ant tells the
next where home is,
where to find alms for the queen.
We climb to the lips
of our dirt abode single file,
mindless—so tell me mindless.
the hush of an eclipse is upon us.
Trains and cars will slow to a stop.
The stars will light up like old neon signs
flickering open and closed
on the bar window for the last time.
Passengers will peer out their windows
at the sense of a world stopped spinning.
This is transition.
Please donate your car.
Don't be political.
Step out of the vehicle slowly.
We can salvage everything accomplished
in the last hundred years of girders, rivets, and oil
for a new way to spread accomplishment.
We just need you to smile
and appreciate the noon twilight.