Even the Good Wood Gone

and when i woke up, i woke up stiff and grey already,
posed in sleep by something half my cells made stone,
wrists and ankles crossed at a vulnerable angle,
and when i woke up, well i woke up alone

as the only fool or pharaoh present,
in a shoddy school museum collection

looted of gold, if there ever was some,
and even the good wood gone
remaining fingers curled around the memory of ra,
left not even with my death mask on,
heart and other organs missing for so long,
features faded and dated in estimation,
and even the good wood gone

drunk off a leak in the ceiling,
some mantra stuck on my lips in vain

no flash photography,
no flash photography,
no flash photography,

and when i'm really buried i'll be buried in cleveland,
with a new pair of skis and someone's old set of keys to their car,
and bottom floor apartment door and health club locker,
throw the scent of my true purpose from god and grave robbers

my true purpose which i will have taken the care to have kept hidden
even from myself my whole life

no flash photography,
no flash photography,
no flash photography,

already grey and rehearsing my mantra,
left hand gripping hockey stick or cattle prod,
my final futile act of double deception,
aloof and tinged with truth as the best lies are,
as i've always shot pool south paw,
and many of you who knew me saw