death be not proud, Thee.

Ashes to ashes. dust to dust. I am this Earth.
Move along now, My Ego.

Tissue, turnips, tumors and worm-pods;
volcano blood and salt:

we are equal now, aren't we,
in this warm bowl of life

our rickety remains
getting chewed up for bread by the moment.

Not afraid of dying, really,
or even writing bad poems

but I do wish some people would quit
acting like no one is peeing in the bathwater,
and sh*tting on the rose beds.