Jay Passer
mausoleums in lieu of
museums
to clumsily unearth, hunched over,
fingers blurred
(happy memories for future generations).
I sleep in blocks like children’s toys
pitch-black
recalled in Polaroids,
claiming immortality
I perform taxidermy
it takes an expert
to put her back together with any aplomb.
falsely I clamor through the ER
against history
against the ruling class (wringing tears
from pungent carcasses)
against the croupier’s halitosis
Windex on the rocks.
there’ll be other hunting accidents
crushed glass in the bed and steel
wool in the ears.