The Balking Dead

I’ll never understand the living
Why they run screaming from us
And make god-awful homicidal
No-budget movies depicting us
Mucking about at a menacing
Tortoise’s pace instead of lying
In green long abiding ease
Or sitting on a cool marble slab
Having a smoke and telling jokes
Of who the hell we were.


The Hoover Sutra

Karma is a big living room rug
That looks okay, clean enough
Can wait another month or so.
But when you finally vacuum it
The see-through chamber teems
With feral herds of dust bunnies,
An aggregate of one’s thoughts,
Words and deeds. We all wonder
Where does that all come from?
Has it something to do with me?