stuff to the eyeballs,
stuffed eyeballs,
my stuff drowns me,
my snail-trail receipts,
my monster-ball briar of wires,
those old players, those old
tired and lonely books,
shoes i've never worn,
useless consumer trophies
all mounted in dust,
all stuffed in cardboard,
weathered closet mountains,
how does one begin to chip away?
landfill life, Reaganomics all
trickled down and piled up,
legacy of my
legacy of
spiritual holes.

if i could trace every copper wire
to the miner who mined it,
to the sweat from the sweatshop,
from the subsistence income to my
buried box,
how much guilt would weigh me down?
every receipt is a tree, every
receipt is a tattoo
of waste and shovel-digging
over an unfillable grave.

when i die--just pile it all up,
my hoard,
my new testament of 
unsustainable me,
my big "fuck you" to starving people
everywhere,
and watch all that caustic smoke
and benzene fumes just stick it
and stick it hard 
to the planet that birthed me