death is a ray of sunshine
traveling and burning through our atmosphere
searing the skin
numbing the senses
it doesn’t matter where we meet
or where we sleep or where we eat
or who’s to blame
what are these hands that clutch for grief
that work for a brief period of existence
maybe death is a way of travel
a ray burning through other atmospheres
breaking out of the skin
elevating the senses
and it didn’t matter how i met death
or where i slept or where i ate
no one’s to blame
because these hands are outstretched in space
another place

Play ball.
Bathroom stalls.
Cotton candy.
Randy Jackson.
Action films, comedies, and romances.
Shopping malls.
Blue ***** and hot chicks.
**** itch.
Shop lift.
Pockets full of chocolates.
A rock in my pocket reminds to think.
I hate when my clothes shrink.
Smoke rings.
Chinese Yo Yos.
** Hos and a slurpee.
7 11, stopped for munchies and im thirsty.
Working overtime.
Overworking me.
The herbal remedy has my mind fried.
Blind sided.
Hindsight is 20/20.
Im lazy.  
The shades are pulled down.
Its hazy.
Inactive.
Let me roll this blunt in the back seat of this cadillac.
Two P, pass that.
Im not looking to die.
Im looking for life after death.
Aftermath.
Nothing left.
Blasted, not bombs.  
Its my head and my chest.
Its the sess.
On my finger tips and on my breath.
I exhale clouds of wickedness.
Cleanse the soul.
Refresh.
Impress the judges to sway their interests.