He fell asleep at a wake,
and his dreams were equally ironic.
For a few hours, he relived the dead man's blues.
He sat reading wretched manuscripts in a gray cubicle,
drove home in his ragged car
until he was suddenly transported.
He felt the butcher knife penetrate his back, his stomach, his chest.
He felt the hot blood run on thin, naked skin in the February cold
as the men spat in his face yelling "Die fag."
As he drew the now lifeless man's last breath,
his mind ripped his lids apart like bread boxes flung open by hungry obnoxious children.
His breath was as intoxicating as a drug.
He stared ashamed at the wounds on his wrists vowing not to perform any more amateur surgeries to remove his formerly malignant life.
Sometimes you have to die to learn how to live.