Monday, April 10, 2017

All of them laughing

i only write about the dead. 
the dead are all i write about 
because i cannot get over those 
cold still hands. 
i cannot get over those 
lonely sounds.
i cannot, just cannot 
get over them. 
Hours, months pass 
and graves close up;
new things grow on top; 
a hard scab forms that only 
hurts if you move
the wrong way. 
best not stress that scab or else 
it bursts with hard new pain. 
i only write about the dead because 
i cannot get over them, 
i write to rip their fingers from my heart, 
to scrub their dander 
from my skin. 
the suffocating dead; i see their faces, 
all of them laughing. 
all of them content, 
all of them tired of me, 
my endless mourning.

Cry a gray river

All day every day their cries 
invade my house, 
cries so shrill they burst 
from souls of souls from all directions, I hear 
the screamers shot, gassed, 
blasted from homes, 
kicked over borders; 
every day I hear 
the whimperers--sick, hungry; those 
despised for some singularity, 
some disparity at birth and then 
there’s the mourners like me 
whose lovers left them. 
What can we do 
after the postcard to Congress, 
after the march, 
after the all-night benders? 
I can say crying a deep gray river will soothe us, 
somehow a gray river of tears
will hold us steady;
and so will chanting 
and so will rocking, 
and so will praying, 
though no one 
beyond the lamp post 
will give a damn but

we can rest. 

Thursday, April 6, 2017


There were warnings.
The frisky pulse and flow within,
the puzzled looks, the growing thin.
the kinks in lids, the stickiness and all
in every honeycomb of him, up, down, I heard 
the call but was sure of time, thought more of it then
--not so now I’ve seen its fainting pen, 
for really time and time again that glue
was always plenty, really all we knew.
But it runs, runs out on them, on you
and we are locked long in its slur:
shame and blame all go with mourning 
and then the anxious wait 
for yet another warning.