The dead are alive—
of rotten joy.
The dead are laughing
in the broken mirror (their teeth
hollow; their eyes
like dried out pods).
They do not think that they will disappear
into the amusement park
of nothingness. On the contrary,
this is where they are. In the fitness centers
of the soul; in the three branches
Don’t search for them in cemeteries,
for there lie nothing but gravestones
and frozen capsules.
Seek them in secret
villainies, in the funk of discord.
Without the passage of blood
and the flame that welcomes
they are free to wound,
because a shell is all they are.
Now, they can be a plus, post-
human like a chip.