Dead Sea Scrolls

The albatross I have shot down will not keep me in these stagnant waters where parasites,
scum,
and women of need gather as a reminder of how fast your life can stop in the suburban tombs.
Nor will I wait for your name to appear in the obituary column in the early addition of Sunday's paper.
I know that you've spent a life time trying to perfect your death,
making it an art form.
Some place to write your signature.
But the more you think in terms of lines
the higher you will rise,
until you reach the heights of a Mexican plateau.
And all lines become ledges that move closer together.
When you finally jump
like an actor from a fifth story window,
high on acid,
you will gain speed in your free fall until you hit concreate.
This is where you realize that you've always been grave crawling,
never reaching the heights that you thought were possible.
And that face at the bottom is your reflection in the waters of the Dead Sea.
But your name is still alive,
fighting off all shadows of bullshit from the next joker.
But your name,
Merry,
sounds like God,
brings me to my knees in prayer that carries me to
shark-skin clarity.

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