La Petite Morts

La Petite Morts,
My little death
Follows big sex, more than that
Much more:
Blackout brownout gray smudge out of a moment steals life, buys time.

All over the place if I pay attention,
A smacked-down depression of letting go of something, anything.
Whacked by a large fist of grief.
Gut-punched right out of bed in the morning.

Who ever thought the fucking therapy,
the mojo stylings,
the self-help shinola
would come to this?
Fire somebody at work and live through it?
Vibrate with fear, sleepwalk.

Without a funeral, this death:
No official ritual for the living, poof:
Deal with it.
Pack up your troubles,
stuff ‘em up the other end of your mouth.
Cork in the ass of progress.

There is a balm beyond time,
a release, a key turning, a coffin.
I found it yesterday and I am grateful.

Forgive me, I confuse surrender with guilt.

Stop dragging that rotten carcass behind you.
Scrub the festive graffiti from the wall of your skull.
Shoo away the ravenous ghosts from the closet.

Get on with it.
Nothing you can do about these little deaths,
Except to pay attention:
It’s rehearsal.