May 022010

Salvatore Attardo



Dying is god’s punch line

to your life

a dirty, nasty story

you didn’t get, halfway gone

a rambling affair, not quite done right,

slightly disgusting

one listens to for fear of offending

told awkwardly, out of order

probably messing up some of the good bits


and then the moment comes

and you ascend to hear

the snicker of cherubs




I am the undertaker

the rope merchant

the priapic angel of death


I am the reality check

your dreams unfulfilled

your story cut short


I am the child, the idiot son

the grim pallbearer

with empty pockets


who discovered Tourette’s syndrome

and never looked back




I sit in this high room

bought sight unseen

some mail order bride

I turned out to be


This is my castle

this Maltese falcon





you tell yourself


this is the noblest of rots

this is game I hang to age


What about this righteous delusion

brightens your end?