one hand clutches a wilted megaphone; the other, wrapped around the throat of my elusive conceptual ghost. my unanswered questions lining the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. my eyes, fixed on a point off in the distance; like Pike saying, “yep. we should be there by tomorrow.”
my legs buried in couch cushions, remaining torso bathed in the frenetic glow of infomercial 0blivion. ropey iridescent drool aiding in the escape of my half-baked last words: “all work and no play make Jack…wanna lay waste” shudders offer the only punctuation.
surrounding my pyre, the doubt-stained carpet is littered with the tardy trappings of escapist dogma. cold empty bottles & cold unplayed CD’s. (even in death, I feel thirsty.)
my obituary is choked with mixed metaphors. my funeral is cancelled, due to creative differences. the eulogy, postponed by exhaustive rewrites.
personality obfuscations cloud the forensic evidence. “he’s not dead, he’s just apathetic.”
(giggles shatter the mourning air.)
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