Burt Vonnegut

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.

#

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.

Next April

Manifestation of you twenty five years earlier
overlarge black jeans seemingly starched
syndicalism, however you want it to be.

What were you considering having pierced then?
were you still practicing your falsetto on the back porch
late in autumn so that things are covered in leaves and you're stuck with just one bottle of white wine in a canvass knapsack, your cellphone,
an old dreadlock. It is next April.