POEM CALLED NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD AND ZOMBIES
or Dawn of the Dead and Zombies—I don’t care.
“Department of Redundancy Department,”
I say in my most cheerful bitter phone voice,
though I’m not at work and my Blackberry’s off.
I lie—and it lays—on the couch, both of us
oddly perfect, like a pinball and a cloud.
I find I’m to bed on the late side these days
(television test patterns having vanished)
but I could always get there earlier
were there reason enough—say, one—to do so.
You say “tomato”; I say “Don’t tase me, bro!”
Have I got an obituary for me:
b. 1970; d. 19-something;
lives in California with his family.
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