Iron-willed, even asleep I crave the normal.
No bad dreams for me.
Morning: I wake up, having slept like a baby, and walk into the yard.
The grass, fed by the world’s slaughtered who’ve decayed into the perfect meal,
is green the way I like it.
Birdies warble cutely in sunlit trees.
At peace, I claw the ground in search of breakfast: tiny morsels found inside the buried’s rotted navels.
Done eating, I enter the kitchen, lean over the sink, turn on the faucet
and rinse my mouth with phlegm piped in from the lost throats
of little girls who once sucked gas from shower nozzles.
Later, when the mind doctor comes and asks who I am,
I hacksaw open the top of my head
and laugh when out pop the dead.
At day’s end, I fall asleep
and wait, nightmareless as usual,
for dawn’s incredible normal.