Corpse of a Living God
and Other Poems

Corpse of a Living God


A painter dies of a heart attack
before finishing a portrait of Winston Churchill.
In his afterlife he continues
the practice infinitely.

The problem is that he never reaches
the torso. Let alone—
the naked heart of an old man,
and the old man
never did really exist.


Is it better to be a monster or a shadow?
So much opportunity, meanwhile,
is found in the transit.
Every landscape holds little places.

By lamplight, the good men
make numbers into names.
But the proof stays the same.
Like zero—like phoenix.

Demand really does come alive.
That hidden world
where desire and imagination split.

What is the difference
between a carnivore and a hunter—the curse—and the damned?


A goose heads south, lands
atop an open briefcase
filled with million-dollar bonds.
It relieves itself and places green
upon green. The color of life grows.


A clever man is drinking vodka out of his backpack.
He says, In ten years
all the money in this world will disappear.

I hope your family becomes poor,
I hope everyone becomes poor.

I drink from his cup. In seven months
one of us will be dead, unable
to witness the outcome.


Only here, it is realized
that grief is forbidden.

To kill a boar, an arrow
cannot look back.
Even after the meal,
a weapon is never the same.

Dead flesh rises with the heat.
A corpse is a land,
and any mass can be a home.


Promise me that this world
will soon be over. So—

What begins next?
                                    What begins next?
What begins next?

Fate Is a Fine Leash

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.