Although I’m still a bit
too young to fill my days
with funerals, I’m learning
how to fail, decay, and fall
apart for starters.
I move less quickly than I did
when I was a young lad.
The time goes faster all the same–
you lose your mind to age’s axe
instead of going mad, the way you did
back when you knew how
to make yourself youthful.
I’ve grown too tired to make new friends,
too comfortable with loneliness
to stop talking to myself,
having no fear I’ll be overheard
or understood, a foreigner surrounded
by pedestrians dressed in earphones
and faces that reveal nothing
in eloquent silence.
My hair falls with the autumn leaves,
swimming semen soaring like salmon
before performing a splattering pratfall
on the table. Desire continues
despite rejecting fatherhood,
reproduction thwarted and aborted
in favor of futile fantasies,
the fiasco of the future.
Besides, I’m too childish
to raise those who’d continue
in the nickname of progress
and too aware how near the end
now feels as I am gently crushed
by the sundial’s shadow,
my grief ground down to sand
fine enough to fill a grave
yawning with either boredom
or fatigue–it’s hard to tell
from here, now that my eyes
are broken, dissolving as they shine.