Walking solitude
dragging solitude
under heel
between flesh and sock
as if it is my dated grave
tied to my ankles.

Camus said there is one philosophical question
and that is whether or not to kill yourself.

Place one upon a mountain of lonely stones
isolated from the flurry of things,
of All Things

Mouth-words, ink-words, pixel-words, opening vastness
Teeth, NO! Dentures.
The baby teeth yanked
with medicinal clippers
and the teeth that grew in place
pulled out by inexperienced pliers.
Planted as bumps of soil, they
stagger Earth to these lonely mountains
more soulful than wind or rain
ignoring with acceptance the balances
installed through events scribed and unconscious
that lead up to your race to the crematorium.

Carry solitude like a corpse
& succubus of no-wheres will kiss you each night and morn
Soul will become old photographs
and your body a dead pond.

Live like an ocean
a brook, the fullest stone
washed over,

and decide whether or not
to kill yourself.