I'm dead. Unlike Frost and Yeats
nothing I've said will be remembered.
Unlike Roosevelt and Lincoln
nothing I'm thinking will win the war.
I'm going to go to my grave unsung
like almost everyone. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to. There's no such thing
as being saved. When you're gone
you're done. At least 60 million
people don't believe it, don't believe
in evolution. Man, that ape,
can heap a peck of hurt posthaste
with earth movers and machine guns.
Information technology
cannot save your soul, heck,
I've tried. Every morning
I total the polloi
coming to my site for wisdom.
The number's usually zero.
A good number to know.
When my heart fibrillates
I lay my head
against my sleeping wife.
Solace, comfort. She says,
Take your pill, fool.
In an hour at most
I'm feeling great again!
Categories:
fibrillates, death, grave, hurt, mountains,
Form: Verse
The lapse takes place in moonlight,
Curtained behind the rain,
Where the raucous chimes of midnight
Mock with their cracked-ice refrain;
The gut-churning whiskey of sorrow
Swills on the palate of fear,
And the cigarette breath of tomorrow
Spills through memorial beer.
Resurrecting the buried and burning
Raised from the shallowest grave,
She never was one much for turning,
No mercy to strain or to save;
Unto the breach, once more to divine,
If the end calls a curse on the fates,
The recidivist heart in a step-like decline
Fibrillates as it anticipates.
Categories:
fibrillates, life, lost love
Form: Verse