You need to have a head on hand
greens, raw and shredded. You
carry a diagnosis. You carry your iPad
to the funeral, watch YouTube
while the casket runs down the aisle.
When today is tomorrow you know
you are in Japan. The body
is uninhabited. You carry a diagnosis
a gift to you. Half portion.
Holes are insatiable, do not feed.
The corpse needs to be fresh, lightly
salted. Standard equipment on all models.
Flesh removed, fat marbled.
Do not let the brain
loll in its cerebral hammock.
You carry a diagnosis. Your bed
a small boat lost
in a weird, frothy sea,
soup-chunky with regret.
Watch the show, serve the tail
last. Do not stew. Do not forget:
you carry a diagnosis. Write it down
on index cards. Pass the recipe
to your children.