The Internal Revenue Service sent me a form this year,
   like last year,
      like every year,
         personalized with my name 
            on a computerized label.

Every person in the IRS experienced the meeting of
   father's wetness with mother's darkness.

Every person was born in the heart of a star,
   which gave its life to them.

Every year I am wondering how to wiggle away
   from paying for more
      death.

Their form was made from a tree.
Noone selected a particular tree.
Trees are killed just like people:
   noone bothers with getting to know them first.

When I was 18
   Uncle Death told me to come 
      to his killing party.

Now I could say,
   "I'm crazy.  You can't use me!   I'm defective."

I want to cut off my left arm
   and send it in 
      the same way I received it:
         as a gift.