Friday, May 04, 2007

An Expedition to the Dead Sea without a canteen

They turned her to dust in the morning
Wheeling a cold gurney
forward into
the heated penumbra
Her strawberry nightie lightly floating
As the
rollers moved the old flesh forward
Those arms that gripped
my arm
Those lips, kissed a thousand times
Those loins that bore me squalling into this
The sparks of sweet neurons gone in 1500 degrees
No more wake up
No more microwaved coffee
All her deeds, good and otherwise
Into the
dissolution of a “ Power Pack II” Cremation system
hours to disassemble
Six decades of a Mother’s love
Suddenly I am alone
on the salt flats
Dizzied, stunned, disoriented and silenced
The dust
stings my eyes
The salty tears wash them clean

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Consummation Of Grief

by Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water is their tears.
I listen to the water on nights
I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoe horn
a laundry ticket
it becomes cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines
. . .it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses
down the avenues of the dead.