Stack Those Bones

Perfectly perch the Occipital on Condyle.
Insert Head of Femur into Ilium,
plus or minus 0.3 degrees.
Mind the Acromial Angle . . .
just so . . . 
and you yet may sleep.

Yet,

no matter how hard you tend to the osseous matter,

those offal innards are still so soft.

And it is awful that

those inners are,

at some point,

to be presented back to you.

And while it was forecasted 
with 100% probability,
plus or minus zero standard deviations,
that you would suddenly be gifted with
a flayed bit of your own fillet —
draped sadly over the tine of a fancy fork
or accidentally attached
by a dirty old bandaid
to a glossy bit of junk mail 
(a sudden startled “Ugh”
when the pile got turned over
for some damn random reason) — 
the point is that
you are are still surprised.

 
Because after the 164^th time,
you might expect tedium 

in the mustering muttering myocardium.

Yet,

here you are again,

shocked at the awful awe-full offal —

that soft tissue that oozes out,

no matter how you stack those bones.

But wait,

Isn’t it better to have

an interesting interior

rather than 

just drafty dust 

among the rafters?

Isn’t perfect pain preferred?

As the tines turn and catch,

an explosive wet rainbow

slops out among stars and plasma —  

Massive Gaseous Celestial Formations,

Remissive Emissions,

Repercussive Repercussions,

Sinoatrial Songs —

screech and scrape

along the intercostal waterways.

So, I guess . . .

celebrate the turning of the screw,

the threads catching the flesh.

For tomorrow,

it may make

a mycelial surrender

to the slow sonorous 

songs of sporangia.

Adipose to Ashes.

Epithelium to Mycelium.

Your carbon consumed,

set free to Greater Entropy, 

the Susurrations of Cycles…..