Wednesday, May 5, 2010

if only they could see my insides they'd run

at the barbershop
jack the barber whips the cape
around my neck

i observe him in the mirror
attempt to clean up my skull

every few minutes
he uses a large shaving brush
to wipe the stray clippings
off my forehead & face

it occurs to me that jack
is a sort of cosmetic mortician
for the so-called living

later he puts some shiny gel in my hair
flips the front up

when he's all done he shows
me the back of my head by holding
up a hand mirror behind me

i nod in approval

he finally brushes fine smelling
powder on the back of my neck

this upright perfumed corpse
appears quite presentable

i walk out into the fumes
of the street
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.

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