to the dead man who got sick
Covered in death’s icy mosses
the dead man lies flat, laughing
sardonically at heaven.
He wants to read the headlines to
ponder and resolve the riddle of his days.
For his brain is not swamped
with the poisoned blood of lust.
On the day of his death he read
news items about what’s happening in Iran.
Suddenly the Ayatollahs of the revolution
piled in his heart and they suppurated
in his soul and he knew he had been cheated
by life, so he died and meadowlarks pleaded
for his asylum in heaven.
The Ayatollahs laughed, and then there was silence,
except for the hiss of his rotting body.