you find yourself reanimating
past misery and mystery like an
odd dead thing, staring
at you with grave dust still on its sleeves,
just to turn out that
really good
shit you used to make when the
world was knocking at your head
like a rude avon woman
and you could only rock in
your silent gritty armchair with
dread
.
no, you can't live the happy
telemarketer beauty parlor life
because you would wither and hate it
and because you actually like the
taste of your blood in your mouth,
but sometimes you have
to wonder why you don't
major in business