Soiled

Soiled 

Nine o’clock a.m. at work, I feel the dirt encompassing my body

No casket, just a sheath of soil, dark, dank,

The worms stimulate my naked flesh with unintended contact

Eyelids still operate, but I crusted the mode like a hurricane shutter 

Peering out might gauge the depth, six or two-thousand feet

Technical respiration is at battle with function; posing the question

If one is not actively converting the oxygen in one’s blood

To purposeful action to alter the molecular configuration of the universe 

If one is choosing static, like a self-induced coma to numb to oblivion

Then the differential between inhalation and a trachea clogged with dirt

Compacted into the stomach and sinus cavity is moot 

Murmurs through the surface I can hear coworkers discuss country gossip

Hunting trips and the splendor of evolutionary camouflage

Afforded to ruminant mammals by the process of elimination

As those that failed to adapt were the first devoured by carnivores 

Cancel Christmas, call off the sales; the consumerist mob

Will have to endure the guilt of not purchasing me presents any longer

The Prozac is tempting, but like any drug dealer I am skeptical

The zenith of muted sensations still capable of registry is absence 

The dopamine deluge risks sacrificing my carcass for candy

Nothing to gnaw on here, but hippocampus vitamins soliciting a lounge act

Dance for the people monkey, prance marionette for the ticker symbol beckons

All you asked for was a confidant therapist; We are Blue Cross HMO 

We don’t fund prostitutes of discourse, not enough profit in that

Here is Wonka’s Gobstopper, now stop gobbing and start smiling

The world needs someone else to gather sugar for the anthills

Besides the feckless ills of non-production will ensure your demise 

The grit between my toes is making nice with the fungus in my nail beds

I bet the organisms are partying with the keratin to grow the flaky cells

Back to full strength; the earthen overcoat is surely good for such a purpose

A mole might come and burrow through my thighs; I wonder what diseases I’ll catch? 

Winter is coming; bones sense the lack of lubrication in the joints

The connections go first, like a harbinger of a cholera outbreak on an island

Raise the black flag, land here at your own risk

No vials nor inoculants, merely roots,

Shoots rampant clawing like fingernails for that better bit of soil