Living With The Dead

We live the world of dead things
with a debt owed to relish and enjoy them.
Become the vampire as I drink the blood of coffee beans
while the electric coffin hums quietly, preserving as best it can
the flesh of animal and vegetable.

I avoid my favorite leather chair,
squirm uncomfortable in plastic seating
surrounded in unnatural molecules I rise.
Reverently circling the wooden rocker
whose sweet creaks are a cry of chainsaws and mills
I sit on synthetic until I realize I am dying,
each day closer to that which I consume.

I make a truce with all the dead things
assuring them that one day I will join them
add to their value. Now modern necromancer
I conjure supine lustful in the rocker, by the window,
hearing the whispers of tombed poets
written on crushed trees bound by tanned skin.
I rock comfortable in the arms of the dead.