Cave of Skulls

by Bruce Holsapple

It sure got thick in here
hard to get air
the sharper descent

It doesn’t pay to judge
on account of
what you believe

reliably step the next
as regards depth
O fudge

Hand me that lamp
I meant project
(the temperature drops)
this cave of skulls
this lampshade

a shine of cafeteria chrome
the glass behind which
steamy pots of stew beef
baked potatoes
gleamy to the eyes

but that’s clearly a chowline
& us channeled
to & fro, the chosen

There’s our smelly president
selling Wonderbread
mustard on his clothes
divine election, I’ll suppose

the virtues of dough

You ‘re still wearing dungarees,
something pronounced
(I can’t stand pretension either
especially from fakes, humph!)

The Smithereens come on the radio
you know what that means,
musical destruction
saintly bliss!

Are you still listening?
I’ve seen just enough grief
to recognize that syndrome

you simply must keep breathing
(one death at a time!)
those hands at your throat
are your own