As if in our biology were born
a malfeasance, a money-sick
demeanor we might cure
with cardiocredit that shames
itself to energyspend and carrymore.  

But death is just waking up
on the wrong side of the bed
of roses.  

I know this because I have lost
myself in high fructose. Have lived in the flesh
of purple poppy-mallow. Have prostrated
before the one-eyed shasta stare and moseyed,
heart full of yesses,
across carpet sewn with pink and primrose gusto.   

Have given it something less than my all and yet
something more than it deserved of me.