King for a Day

there is nothing to do but straighten the rug
now that the subjects are gone.
my ass is slung
my aura, punctured, exhales
weak currents yet
beyond me, ambivalent
to me
though i grab the sky.

I will be spit into the ocean
of plastic and silt and human waste.
I will settle to the bottom pierced and pecked
by blind creatures who don’t appreciate their novelty.
pieces of my cold skull,
long imploded,
will never be discovered
and the waves will break,
scattering what little permanence they’ve known