I sold my lymph nodes to Age, who intends to smoke my immune system on the grill and give it a cajun rub. Disease is a dark room developer, and his images are always of Death pushing a lawn mower across the back plains of my iridescent mind. Age is an old friend (literally). He is not as wise as you would think. Folly has a shocking shelf life. But I smell my life float away on the Kansas wind, whistling as it does toward the hostile Rockies.

Fresh, minty ghosts curl around me block out the scent of singed sinners. In the diaphanous daylight, they are invisible like indifference. But in the cool colored twilight of my youth,
I see their visages, their eyes gaping holes and their mouths smiles taped on. I, too, am a scrapbooker in the government waiting rooms of life. Cut out of my purple womb, a poem so sublime my guardian angel won’t read it without his shades on.  I stick a ghost on my tongue. He sizzles and evaporates, leaving that wonderful cold scent of freshness. Behind me, the warm aroma of Regret baking my blue birthday cake.