December 23, 2002

The calm of chaos,
its deafening silence tiptoes
welcoming me
with releasing
arms.
There is no dying
this time,
for you mother.

Go ahead, give into it, echoes my childish
subsistence, plunging
en route to its cuttingly saccharine
downfall.

Cooking her holiday feast met
its end, my fiasco
never seemed so
promising.
A glistening potion, administered
to fill my fatherless
emptiness.
Mother’s holiday pleasures
melted
by the smooth Hannukah gelt dampened
under the weight of no
medical insurance.

A death, so deep into its lonely grave, as
the sting of Miss Morphine lent
my corpse the sole decision

of

accepting a ride upon a weakly
lit haze
to the world of otherworldly
itches, unrushed
to any interruption.

Spirit and corpse intertwined, a moment
murdering this subdued pain.
Like a Vulture possessing candor, it caressed
my aches, without pardoning
my fears a clear chance
for parole.