Millions of deaths would not have happened if it weren’t for the consumption of alcohol. The same can be said about millions of births.

Death would be an extremely bad thing like most of us paint it, if being dead were painful.

I don’t know how these things died without benefit of a bullet to the brain pan. They seemed to exist in an eternal twilight of longing.

You are a cool cemetery.
You have the sinner’s grave
You have the saint’s earth
colliding
You have all the beds
narrow as a knife;
as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.
But you can’t really postpone
the inauguration of my burial,
can you?

From the poem – Few Words to Cemetery

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