Filed under: poems | Tags: blood, cats, death, God, music, sex, whispers, windows
When death comes,
it snatches with quick & clumsy
kittens’ claws
in a frenzy of
untrained aptitude.
It comes with all the clumsy enthusiasm
of a teenager.
It doesn’t allow for last words
or unfinished business
or secrets whispered with final breaths…
It does not wait for you to make peace with it
before it carries you out the window.
It’s silent…
no fanfare,
no flock of angels descending from Heaven to welcome you into the
Kingdom of God
no grand requiem
or trumpet solo.
No one plays Taps.
It is
quick
and easy
and messy.
Sometimes there is blood.
Sometimes there is not.
But there is always
mess
and no one disappears
without a trace.
They are somewhere
stinking
and very dead
whether you know the place or not –
a mess,
yours,
or someone else’s.
There’d be no jobs for
search dogs
coroners
and gravediggers
if that wasn’t true.
Filed under: poems | Tags: beds, dreams, fabric, food, music, sex, the outdoors, windows
A dream
of silent life
is what I wanted.
But in my head
an endless music plays
that bleeds into the fabric
of my dreams
constantly,
and last night an angry rhythm
of random images
pounded themselves out while I slept –
morning sex,
a hot shell in cool young light,
covers up over our heads
and my breath on your neck;
my house,
coopted by a group of hardened journalists,
at whose intrusion I played heavy metal to
drive them away;
pasta in a bowl three feet deep
that I could not eat
and damn near fell into;
and a damp and foggy park in the early hours of day
with a miniature playground,
a kid on a bike pedaling over the wet grass,
abandoned cars with frosted windows
sitting in a parking lot on the far side
and a gathering of Armenian boys
in the back,
a low slung fence
and a turnstyle gate
made of wood…
…perhaps as soon as I
scrape these from my subconscious
I can figure out how
to make the real world disappear,
as well.
