Poetry

A chat with the ground

I was with the skull all evening,

smirking at its cold jokes.

Our breath came out in backwards hymns

as it spoke of what death is really like.

I said to it that I wanted to shake its hand

for giving me such relief.

It replied that

one day, when it worked up the energy,

it would reach its arms out of the earth

in daisies and let me pick them.

Poetry

The Chattering Skull

Eyes sunken, black holes cackling

pot-bubbling like, a cacophony of hahas

every time the shower curtain is pulled back

to reveal yourself to this particular audience.

The toothy grin, polished white noggin

so familiar, so present. Again.

Hollow inside, impenetrable outside.

Petrified criticism if there ever was.