• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 01


Sign on the sidewalk.
Ashes and concrete.
When the wind blows down the street
And the bones rattle in the storefront windows,
This is what you get:
Dead Peoples Stuff For Sale.

Everything I have is hand-me-down.
I'm not sure I'd know how to act
If you gave me something new.
It all looks so familiar on Christmas morning—
I've seen it all before,
I've had it all before,
I'm tired of the same old shit I get
Every time I shop for something more.

I'm afraid that's all there is:
Your grandfather's old pocket watch,
His farm in Connecticut,
His facial features—
Something about his sidelong glance—
Such as these are not only your inheritance,
They are you.

The sign on the sidewalk says it all:
Dead Peoples Stuff For Sale.
A little insensitive perhaps,
But it's the truth.
And we are the dead people.



The living are out there beyond our ken.
They don't buy and sell,
They have no possessions to get rid of,
They have better things to do.