i grow more faithful every fist i make (death x.)

my friends voted me most likely dead
and i helped by voting for myself.
wondering if god knows i'm dead
losing my hips to the rot
of lying flat, my head to the numb
of car, pick, sort, purchase.
at goodwill a fellow collector told me i'm doomed
there, i almost predicted and almost spoke--

and there are no concrete strips
in the warm care of heaven,
a fear i've released like an old cracked case.
i can jump on the wrench til the bolt falls
and listen for an ironic christ 
in my old cds. i have been dead
before and i can die again.
the Mother is love, and i cannot think i'm a sinner
for my homesickness