Shedding

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

antagonizing Earth

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.

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