Death's In The Good-bye.

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

Once Upon A Time We Were All Born, Popped Out Like Jelly Rolls Forgetting Our Fishdom, The Pleasuring Seas, The Country Of Comfort, Spanked Into The Oxygens Of Death.

Frog Has No Nerves. Frog Is As Old As A Cockroach. Frog Is My Father's Genitals. Frog Is A Malformed Doorknob. Frog Is A Soft Bag Of Green.

With This Pen I Take In Hand My Selves And With These Dead Disciples I Will Grapple. Though Rain Curses The Window Let The Poem Be Made.

Then God Spoke To Me And Said: People Say Only Good Things About Christmas. If They Want To Say Something Bad, They Whisper.