Suicide Is, After All, The Opposite Of

I Imitatea Memory Of Beliefthat I Do Not Own.

I Find Now, Swallowing One Teaspoon Of Pain, That It Drops Downward To The Past Where It Mixes With Last Year’s Cupful And Downward Into A Decade’s Quart And Downward Into A Lifetime’s Ocean. I Alternate Treading Water And Deadman’s Float.

Somebody Who Should Have Been Born Is Gone.

We Talked Death With Burned-up Intensity, Both Of Us Drawn To It Like Moths To An Electric Light Bulb. Sucking On It!

Oh Thumb, I Want A Drink It Is Dark, Where Are The Big People, When Will I Get There...?