the stench of perm and death permeates this place   that defends against the permanent rest      becoming what we see and what we read in the obituaries   we are what we eat and what we drink yet we abuse our bodies   thinking that maybe the truths of it may set us free   if freedom is a slow suicide      getting paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality every other day      I see the cold, I see the alone, I see the too old to live on their own    and it gets to this blank excuse for a beating in the chest   that I throw into a heart shaped glass filled with ice to keep it alive