Offering up the blood of my heart to the gods of the witching hour, a lugubrious toll for my ersatz ecstasies.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Being dead is no bed of roses,
you have so much work piled up in front of you
before the long weekend.
But the folks who are still alive are too quick
to make their little decisions.
The spooks, they tell me, cant tell whether they're moving
among corpses or the fretful living.
The everlasting universe of things rolls
through all minds of all ages in every back yard,
and none of them can hear themselves think.
The ones who left early dont need our voices;
they're weaned from this ground as neatly
as we're diverted from mom's tit. But
what about us?
We need the mystery, we need
the grief that makes us long for our dead friends,
we need that void for our poems.
We'd be dead without them.