The dead are alive—
waxen scarecrows
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
of insanity.

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
raw sentiments,
they are free to wound,
because a shell is all they are.

Now, they can be a plus, post-
human like a chip.