HUGEKOPF
Bright light of prophecy sipped from the skull
of Nostradamus. You see the future
and it’s me drinking lager—my stein full
and huge as my head. Death is a vulture,
a sniper come to crosshair your dreams, your hand
outstretched, surrendering makeshift bone cup.
He predicted the date you’d dig him up,
and now, dearest grave robber, you have land-
ed in the afterlife. And after life,
il pleut dans la nuit, and the wet night
stretches like the succession of German
beers on which I sail my abused liver.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 10:43 PM
