in this garden the intestinal tract for a golem grows
the flora spilling to the floor from the autopsy of the black body
its dark flowers washed down industrial drains

first came the hitman paid for by the hipsters; came ‘the cleaner’ 
with his bath salts dissolving flesh who, because of playing around 
on twitter, lost track of time and never finished the job

the assassinated black body bobbing in the clawfoot – the “bleak” 
& igneous overlapped by disingenuous porcelain; like too many 
hastily cut leaves in the bottom of the tea cup shared between

the coroner and the mortician. neither one ideally qualified
filling in the gaps when writing out obituaries for those of us
wrongfully accused and then woefully concussed.