Won’t it be great when we’re all dead

and zombieing around?

Everything will be like Prom

except with eating people instead of gowns

and maybe shotguns and survivors

instead of corsages.

And of course all that awkward guilt

about my dancing abilities will be

turned into gnawing hunger

instead of gnawing shame.

The qualities unburdened by any clear

critical stance make me blur

with distinction. Healthy trumpets

wake the dead again. I’m cloying.

Last updated on Thursday, February 15th, 2007 .