This is a living text,
full of hopeful
corruption and decay.

Itís a derelict whistle
from behind rotten teeth,
a twisted hand on a
rheumatic cane.

Itís missing several toes:
someone chopped them off,
a vain academic, I suppose.

Iíve seen their fangs,
O Lord, their nails,
their shriveled,
unfed minds.

And late at night,
I hear them howling
in their temples.

Darkly chill their incantations:
each step closer, the worse
their smell becomes.

Irony and angst:
even vultures must apply,
or know the right corpse
to gain admission.

But still, the text lives on,
now crippled, now insane:
itís brilliant in that way,
like a child bargaining
to no advantage.

And therein lies its truth,
or what might one day
pass for meaning:
here today, gone tomorrow,
pain and laughter in between.

January 19, 2006

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