Under an onion moon
sliced into an Oakland sky,
I move within the skin
of an Evil Dead Zombie
over mummy brown soil.
My brain is rolled tight
like a papyrus scroll
before Uncle Kevin’s tombstone.
A Frankenstein stroll away
from his White House bones,
his wife sleeps
in a hospital comatose.
I’m ready to be comatosed
within another b-horror marathon.
Before I grab fresh snacks
at S-Mart in the next breathless week,
I’ll search for a young
Bruce Campbell
gripping a chainsaw
under a lemon sun.
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