If you kill the dead
they'll follow you home
no matter how large the moon
or small the fingertip.

Crop circles don't mean any thing
to the insect, regardless how intricate
the sign, I exist in God's delusion
and write poems about human petulance
in defiance of all the evidence that no one exists
but my choiceless thoughts,
I am dying into a Grand Canyon of words, what shade of India ink
shall I use to draw outside my lines
when I am breathless with awe and hopeless in the void?

"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor,
lawyer, Indian chief."
There's a poet and a fool in me,
a magnificent obsession and a true confession,
the curtain rises but once,
and the play goes on.

There is no end in sight for the walking dead.