My death wasn't a question
but a comma in another's day.
A stamp of rage,
accented by my lifeless
body crumpling hip first
into a car's bumper,
while the driver
grips the steering wheel.

Anger baring teeth,
before ape unity
sheds tears
but fails to ease
his brows
as he drives away,
leaving my corpse
bleeding
on the asphalt.

My fault?
My existence.
My walk
reminiscent
of a soldier,
the assassin

viewed past passive
as a cat fleeing a pickle,
a bird alarm for a plane.

His pain?
My gall,
to walk instead of crawl
before his path, as work
sped his heart to expel
all errant ape commune
to make his blood machine
a prelude to my exhumed

self,

rotting past my shelf life.
Suicidal fantasies hampered
not by bliss
but the ending earned denying
the law of Missing Persons.

Hence, I became a nobody
but that broken body
drowning in a pool.
I would smile irony,
Morrissey and Morissette
knowing I was a fool
finally becoming
nothing in particular.

Yet my life's path
strayed perpendicular,
rising from death's letter,
seizing a life better
than I have any right
to live and this sight
I'd have given anything
to visit has become

an exquisite corpse
of depressed dreams
on endless stream.
My course only wobbled
by a survivor's wallow
that robs the deep relief
every morn's heave ought
to believe.

For my life is not
the speedbump
of an overworked stiff.
No tragedy of office grift
but a stochastic aberration
in a snake-oil nation ignited

through delighted embrace.
A warm past blaze, deep
and purest synergy.
That ever spoken mystery
was the same unique
divergence that granted
my life a chance undeserving.

T'was love that gave
my life's path a curve.