As death's ethereal paws will likely tear me from t-shirt and jeans,
so will my pen's emptied vessel fall an artificial corpse somewhere out in time & space.

So now that I've gotten my 'meditations on mortality' out of the way,
I can get over myself,
and get on with what's most important above all things:

                                                        ­            making something out of nothing

& nothing's exactly as you think it is,
exactly the beast that renders ego stupidity,
stupidity artistry,
that means exactly what it says,
& what else is there to say?

                                                           ­          a lot

evermore this pen runs out of ink,
the coughing patient's last regurgitation,
knowing well its ancient blood's heritage for generations,
& still I am not finished...

                                                    ­                 i o u one day, girl