some poems,
they’re just a transliteration
of the burping, farting, gases
erupting from the writer’s
bloated dead corpse;
a foul pestilence proving
that one corpse can create another
in a great de-composition

words escape
in a great breaking down
of every good thing,
and every bad thing
until there is no thing…
no thing at all

it is a primordial effort
like an elk rotting in the woods –
in the years to come
there is only a soft and verdant mound,
just a rise of life
in response to death