Crack this old skin open
and let the new,
shiny and iridescent,
glimmer hope
and baby soft layer
expose to the light of day.
Grey and ways of hopeless
now gone,
grave deep and waterous.
It’s a tough slog these days,
no matter whose gains you covet.
Can’t even climb into bed
without a little Ambien.
Night-night.
How does this birth the Reaper?
Catatonic binge eater,
crap factory,
totally engaged by the entity.
Never distressed the skin
enough to make it weathered,
no patina,
not a mark.
Excellent used condition.
Brace for the fallout.
Said a thing,
ripped papers,
slung words
like a typewriter.
Vanished
in the shimmering mirage
of cold fact dogging.
I never wrote a love song.
I just hoped that my next death
would be better
than the last one
and I could splay my skin open
and take in the Sun.
Nothing good grows here.
The season is too short,
but there is no end
to the dirt farms
and the fact checkers
and the rules lawyers.
These days everyone’s a critic,
or an architect.
No one lays claim
to their snakehood.
-HG
