the logistics of  a knife fight or how the soul leaves the body

never bring a sword to a knife fight—
they’ll all think we’re the king and treat us accordingly,
we’re killed last—
like the man (or a mouse)
of a crazy spouse.

the stab wound flows

our blood,
our guts,
and all forms of effluence—

to pursue the sewer water goo and start the transcendental ride through space through—


our blood is the first part to return to the soil
like the prodigal son, a parody of life—
the way it feels to not feel
the pain of humanity in a world of vibrant lack
of self is as dreadfully exhilarating as it sounds,

return to our corpse, the king of the fight
our eyes are black, our skin is white
we are dead, on the ground

and so i am alive!
and i just learned th-the vibrance of sound?  
i can see the warmth of music?
i am not sure of self anymore—am i scattered?

you are sliding into a broken down existence—
flesh, or what’s left of you, is a result of electrons finding their partners.
i am sapient death!
we are no longer on track
to see the world       together.
you are now sliding.
you are slipping,
down to an infinitely imperceptible universe wherein “we” no longer linger

We were laying there; dying on the ground at the knife fight– brother,

who has killed you—who has killed you
and brought me to life?!