I am ready for the one thousand and one death,
unhurried torturous and slow painful even to grotesque
death, which I’ve embraced multiple times without
any peevish complaints of my fate, trampled and
trodden in the jarring folds of hefty Earth.
Since my conception in the unfathomable wombs
of rusty mud I carried within my exposed heart
an aching fright of the howls of shrieking winds.
Today I lie decomposed a bleached carcass, a
bulbous mass of my former-self, insipid and pale.
The spectators can witness the mutilations of thousand
deaths incised on my bare veins as the raucous Earth
continues to compress me in her piercing buckles
grinding meat-loaf in an absurd Sisyphean procession
a futile, all a vain exercise, as I will rise again from
my frugal ashes, oozing out my aimless head born
from the vaginal tubes of the ashy soil, with a numbing
terror of the waling winds of sweeping autumn. Born
once again to die another one thousand and one deaths
just enough to cover a full circle.