Today is what counts
tomorrow is too blurry
the river drags our faults
the wind sings our glories
there will be enough soil
to cover our bodies
but there'll never be enough
to bury our story.
Jessica
I need to let it go when its run its course.
But this pain... this lacking. I always feel the hole it leaves. Letting it go feels wrong.
But Why?!
Like im losing a piece that sustains me...
But it hurts. Everytime. More and more.
I reflexively look for it everywhere.
How I do I shut that off?
And that is what scares me.
How do you stop something that feels as involuntary as breathing?
And if you do... Will what it sustains die?
Would it return in the face of it?
And that question that haunts me.
What would be worse?
Living. Hoping. Crashing. Repairing. Repeating
Or finding a way to stop the involuntary?
But that feels like dying when I imagine it.
Are those really my only choices?
Bear it till the end?
Or bury it?
You left like someone closing a window
during a storm they had invited in.
The curtains kept breathing your name
long after your footsteps forgot the floor.
I still find your fingerprints
on ordinary things—
a glass of water,
an unanswered call,
the side of the bed that remains diplomatic.
Love did not leave me gracefully.
It dragged furniture across my ribs,
broke mirrors inside my throat,
taught silence how to scream.
You called it fate.
I called it arson.
You built a home in my pulse
then evacuated without warning.
Now every room in me
smells of burnt letters
and rainwater.
Some nights
I wear my grief like expensive perfume—
subtle at first,
then impossible to ignore.
The moon watches me rehearse
all the conversations
we never survived.
I have memorized the mathematics of loss:
one body,
two ghosts,
infinite apologies.
Still—
if you knock at my door
with your ruined hands
and your late remorse,
I might open it
just to prove
even ashes
can remember fire.
Bury me deep
Bury me deep,
where the pain cannot reach.
Sunset or sunrise
it doesn’t matter.
I am but meat.
There’s not much left in me;
my brain is jumbling,
and I cannot speak.
This job may be the death of me
too tired to think.
Each day is a struggle;
the passing trees swerve and tumble,
drawing me closer, they mumble.
I don’t feel human.
I feel less than I used to.
Hang me from your tree,
for my beloved to see.
Gaze upon what’s around so rarely
here to stay, withered and empty.
I love you forever,
my love, my family.
Happiness is to bury my shame-filled soul within you,
Our springs to return, darkened, from clear skies above,
From the future, with leaves worn by nerves, in silence,
Your tears, a desert horror, like an eternal pain.
Words of reproach, like subtle drumbeats,
Latin rhythms, in our green, full hearts,
Youth, linger a while in apocalyptic time, unyielding,
To your spirit, I will build an elevated Olympus.
Mirrors of our past, gleaming memories,
Bring back the face of love in our days, ceaselessly,
My youth, wretched mammoth, learning with the muses,
Until the day you will bury my soul in poetry.
The mask of verses remains indecipherable dust,
Grotesque, of my stellar genius, square brain, stable,
May your spirit find rest in unknown words,
In the rhythms of our hearts, full of chlorophyll, pure.
In this dance of eternity, our souls entwine,
In an embrace of love that will endure through time,
May our spirit remain, in poetry, alive and immortal,
In a universe of words, like a melancholic setting.
O soil of Gaza, within your belly lie the souls of our children,
Their flesh you consumed without a conscience,
Their blood runs deep into your hidden streams,
Yet you boast of swallowing their tender bones.
You paved a path for their deformed limbs,
Without pity, you grant their innocence a bed.
We weep, yet you pretend our tears are sweat,
While you take joy in burying our children.
The bombs they hurl on your blossoms explode,
Cutting lives short, dismissing our children's future.
You turn their gun-shattered bodies into your fertility,
But of what use, when their limbs lie withered?
O soil of Gaza, vomit out the souls of these children,
—
in innocence they entered your gluttonous belly.
Their days are better above you than within you,
So why did you allow your greed to take them away?
in a leather jacket
birthday cake sandwiches help
clear my sinuses
Googly Hancock; and backseat baristas
Bob Dylan is back in the studio
did he pop out to the shops? Where's he been?
Big Daddy Kane outside Dapper Dan's -
You tossed a coin in the fountain
Wishing to be as happy as a blue cat
storckappopotamus
there will be no custard creams at my wake
nor chocolate bourbons;
take a long walk off a short pier
homewreckers and g'day mate cubes
1905
Geronimo went to Washington
to meet the Great White Father
(where he hoped to bury the hatchet)
and save his Indian Nation...
checking into his hotel, the desk clerk asked,
"Do you have a reservation?"
The perfect poker face when playing cards
(his guards were nearly always broke)
said to be blood-thirsty, his winnings used he
to pay for educating children of the Apache.
He later rode with Pawnee Bill
in what was known as the 'Wild West',
(and what a circus)
a chief he never was,
1909
died of pneumonia all too soon,
'Geronimo Now a Good Indian,'
read the headline of The Chicago Daily Tribune.
the
three things
that t h r i l l
b e a t d e f e a t e a t
him, him, him
don't
b pse
u or
r y c
his
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.’
(Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 2)
Antony was happy to bury Julius~ Cleopatra was now his
All of those ears~ must have been a lot of odd looking Romans
My question is~ would Antony give them all back?
Unlike the smell of rain on country road sediment
I can not find the tears to make my trauma relevant
There is no sweet scent found in my complex petutlance
I wish my mind quiet; when its thoughts are all Old Testament
This level of self-loathing; to date, has no precedence
Though all my acts of selflessness have never afforded me benevolence
Could I bury my head in your chest bones?
Maybe then I'll find out if I am worthy of your true elegance?
Bury me, my love, in a lead coffin
To not hear the rustle of the poplars,
Not to hear the noise of the world,
Until I rot completely.
Bury me, my love, in a corner of the cemetery
To be far from other dead,
To be hidden by the thick earth,
Without seeing the beautiful sky.
Bind me, my love, with heavy chains
So that I can never leave the coffin
For I want to become earth
And then to turn to dust.
I will remain forever in the earth
For I cursed the eternal heaven
When it stole people dear to me
And now, it doesn't accept me.
Threnody dirges miseries
Severance of machinations
The gravedigger’s shovel buries
These coffin crypt lamentations
Lachrymose welts filling levees
Life’s vile xenotransplantations
Psychopomp as a wraith’s whisper
Dust swept away by a zephyr
Oh don’t bury courtesy
on the political Prairie.
Where politicians rant
And tell words I can’t;
Say in a crowd
or even whisper out loud.
Oh bury courtesy not on the political Prairie.
Where the politicians howl
and untruths flow free.
Oh bury courtesy not!
These words came loud and pleading
from many citizenry.
But they took no heed
those politicians breed;
And they buried courtesy,
on the political Prairie.
Bury me under the tree
Just mentally, so you can forget
Easily where exactly
I lie, and what tree is that
Plant me like I’m a seed
Put me into the pot
I’ll be a pepper, or an orchid
Just anything what you want
It’s nice on the window sill
I don’t have to talk or wait
So it’s not with me you will
Speak about something great
Those who don’t know about me
Would listen, and make their remarks
As silent as heaven, I’ll be
When it turns from blue into dark.
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