Journalist and occasional essayist. Fumbling, bumbling, stumbling along.
Five young pallbearers, red-eyed and sniffling, trying to stifle tears, shoulder to shoulder, crammed in a limo following behind the hearse.
My name is Lazarus of Bethany.
I spent my death peering through the cracks in a tomb.
I liked the sleep. I liked the dark dust
No, I did not ask to be raised
from the peace of death.
Will I last November?
I don’t think
it shameful, losing out to a month.
This cold month,
teetering on the edge of the winter,
I’ve been sleeping most the year.
Came to in a Subway line. I don’t know if it was the smell of the baking bread, or the cleaning chemicals, or a nauseous combination of both that hit my brain like a smelling salt, jolting me awake.
