I am like a pastrami made
from lots of little parts but
mostly fat.
Transparent and mostly delicious,
hard until warmed up
a little.
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Dead, until death comes back;
rotting with a tenacity of
affection—at least.
Can't eat, no means of digestion.
Eat anyway. What will happen
to food in the dead stomach?!
Missives of this anyway; the old
man who smiles too much,
or like thinking about death
to the point that magical thinking works.
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Aggressive in that guise. Not not
intentionally grievance-laden
but, for the rest of life, I can be a prick.
It is not, just, like something you buy or don't.
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The last Finnish problem was Swiss design. Do you have any idea how hard life is in the shadow of something so universal as that? Try Burt Vonnegut.
