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parading through the pearly gates with bells on
sleight of hand
to swipe like a frantic salesman at the slate
he baits the hook with brittle tip-toe steps
but carelessly approaches life
just like an anxious jackson pollock
dancing on a soapbox canvas
that patiently awaits his mauling
as if this time it were his last
to say just what he fucking meant, finally.
he took a breath and let it sink
into the absence of his understanding
blinking madly, seeing ghosts
and dreaming of the day
when his poltergeist
would just sit down for tea
