They’re signing off the last line of the will
as I ruminate over which creamsicle peach dye
to soak my hair when I get bored; a meditation
about my body’s resentment for living.

I’m learning to drive and calling out how many kids
I could hit and run. Instead I kill my African violets
with abundant love. Kill time annoying the suburbs
singing teenage rants of this summer’s lazy misery.

I grew up without consciousness, I came into
myself, now I am nothing more than vaporous sunset
dissolving into a trick of the light, this apathetic body
is ascetic and not something worth mentioning.

Photographical eyes, detached head, I live above
plastic trees and people made of things beyond blood
and bone, and their birdcage homes. Humans live in
darkness most of the time, crawling like infants.

This is a stupid way to live, like the dead underground,
surviving off the IV tap of manmade creek water. 
I need new scenery, so daily in the evening I trespass,
wander the neighborhoods and spectate ghost-like. 

My wealth is only counted by potted flowers,
and yet I have money for pointless musings: adorn
my face with sharp objects like a crow collecting
beautiful things, painful things, things.