Maybe you whizz away to far-off worlds,
though from the NASA photos, landing spots
seem scarce for people who couldn’t take to
dust-paved parking lots. Reincarnation
might be nice if you knew you wouldn’t
come back a dung beetle or polio virus,
rolling turds or getting vaccinated against.
But that tops the Bosch stuff: slithered
over by hydra-headed whatchamacallits
with daggers for bicuspids and fangs on
their butts, chattering blather as they
hiss phosgene and fart mustard gas. Or
maybe most of us are dead already, zombies—
which explains video games, American Idol,
and those bleary-eyed mall-walkers milling
through another Black Friday. Then there’s
that Heaven preachers talk about, where
he might spend eternity with cousin Ralph
and the other pious assholes he’s managed
to outlive. Better to sleep with the worms
and grubs, he thinks, and rolls another toke.