01.05.07

I.

We were five days late.
You died on the fifth,
the old year’s skin peeled back
to expose itself to the new times.

What a harsh climate,
cold so bitter it chaps and scales our skin.
While there are remedies, it never fully
disappears. It is a constant ubiquitous itch;
the fascination with white flakes when
skin becomes reminiscent of snow.
You didn’t have to worry about the
superficialities of the outsides anymore.

We drove down the road to buy flowers
at a little stand, and it occurred to me that
even death was a scam. Nine dollars for
a stone engraved with a generic saying to
put on top of a loved one’s headstone.

There is even a hierarchy in death –
this is the poor people’s section and
this is the section for the people so rich
they shit mausoleums out of their asses.

II.

It was hot and humid and raining.
I walked to get lunch anyway,
reasoning that it wasn’t far.
I ran into you and you chided me
for going out in the rain. You would’ve
given me a ride if I asked.

I didn’t want to impose.
You told me I was just like my father,
stubborn through and through.
You then drove me back to the office.
Your voice blended
with the beating
of the rain
against the van.

III.

My father and I got lost looking for your grave.
We were positive you were watching us and
laughing at the fact that we are both directionally
challenged.

I commented offhandedly that the cemetery
was a nice one. My father shot back that
it would be nicer if you weren’t buried in it.

one day

I
was cut loose
a balloon eaten by the clouds.

I looked down.

The urban sprawl spawned
unimaginable things and the

helium bit at me,
insides gnawing away at the lining,
the viscous separation from

connection to everything.

You and I are unborn thoughts
inside each other’s heads.

Soon enough air pressure will
pop me and my skin will float down

to be embraced by the ocean,

a bed of cold needles
one day

we may happily share.

words

There is grandeur in this life
this broken machine that
squeaks and whines
in the back of my mind
while I try to sleep.

There is hope
in these old bones
reincarnated karma
shot straight through
my soul.

While you were sitting
and watching I was right
in the middle of the thick,
rich drama a little like coffee
grounds on my tongue but more
like the same shit in my mouth.

We are spitting words,
regurgitating hypocrisies.
Horns beep and millions of people
yell every second
every minute every hour
every day every week
every month every year
and I die a little death to be consumed
by this city for a month or two and live
wearily in the valves of this old town

opening and closing with the tide,
run over by grit and sand, eroded
just to be built back up again on a
shaky foundation of words. But in

this city
I see the pavement sparkle and shine
and I know all the souls that lived here
were cemented in the ground so that we
can remember them and never be without
another story.

I get tired of the influx of words,
the steady stream of morality and
immorality because what’s the point
of crowding such a short time
with hours of words and no accomplishments?

But we need to talk talk talk.
I need to hear your reasons and
the red river of lies travels faster than
the twittering birds determined to tear you down
with their beaks. If there’s one thing I learned
it’s that no one is safe from the sharp little claws of
insecurity that scrabble at the insides of our skulls

but we’ll keep talk talk talking
until we’ve exhausted ourselves into graves
way far away on the Island, so close that
we can smell the freshly churned earth and
fulfill a dead man’s dream. There is grandeur
in this life but now I must take a sleep much
longer than any other I may ever know.