mmmcdxciv

in memoriam

and these are the
symptoms of grief.

i shot myself.
didn’t go far.

enough is enough.
you don’t have to

tell me twice. chin
resting sternly upon

sternum. flowers
(nasturtiums),

flores, flores por
los muertos (my

rock of gibraltar,
my brand, oh,

my funerary
stela). stela!

i, too, scream
your name,

but not a soul
responds, not

a single hu
man comes

to carry even
an ounce of

my grief. no
one hears me.

scratch that.
on second

thought (if
thought even

be thought).
perhaps i am

the spilt bucket,
the goner, 

gonzo, and 

you are the

one left yet a
mong the living.