Burial

The dead are not alone.
The shovel also services that
which cannot be allowed to live, 
but doggedly refuses to die.
Those fixed flames that will not be 
doused flicker on and suppression 
brings but a smoky revelation
that demands a digging of the 
most excruciating kind.  
Gouging the ground, we kick our
searing cinders into the chasm 
we have created, leaving no 
marker save the scald on our soul 
and the palpable absence of 
what we can suffer to bury, 
but not kill. It will continue to 
burn, unseen by those who it can 
consume and felt only by we who 
can hardly bear its howling heat.

Backdoor

I see you there...all right angles
and making so much sense in a
house where hope withdrew through you
long ago and sanity shortly
followed. Sipping on your sweet
slander, I believe you to be
my best bet on this barren beach
where salty waves sting my wounds
and the sea already sings the
dirge of my coming departure.
There on the horizon is your
rectangular retreat from the
circular logic that replaces
my reason and drives me to depths
I cannot displace. You patiently
tarry as I cultivate the courage
to make my eternal exit,
dropping my cumbersome bones at 
your doorway and collecting the 
weightless cloak of my final absolution.

Novel

Dog-eared and dismissed.
Well-kept, but not well-read;
unremembered, but not forgotten.
I found you today.

A finger lain for a brief moment
on your spine before you
are drawn out of your tiny territory,
opening to that imperative page...

The site of our previous parting
renders grief of an ending written,
yet not perceived by this
reluctant reader.

Shall we begin again?
Or will I only lose my place once more,
your story a bewildering mystery...
as is your touch?

I inhale that which I will
never taste and never feel.
Scents or sense, it matters not.
Nothing can reach me here.

Only the familiar flavor
of loss that I cannot justly
claim clings to that which I will never lose...
regret in the face of my resolute reality.

I set you down for but a moment
and once again, you are gone...
finishing your story in places where
I am but a minor character.

That which we shared is in
the prose of the past and your pages
are turned by another’s hand.
And it is clear that we are done.

Done.....
but never finished.

Bona Fides

Your monuments to yourselves do
you no justice. They are a
paltry proxy for what lies
buried beneath the cool surface
of your alabaster shell.
Depthless discourse cannot shroud
the spectres of that which masquerades
as truth in this place that bears no
resemblance to anything so
pure as that which you cloak
in postures of such perfection.
Don’t you know we are not the
creator nor judge of beauty,
only it’s singer of songs, praising
what we are blessed enough to find
before us and inside us, not
in a hothouse garden of
blooming bodies, flawless in their
perennial performance of all that
is considered good and worthy.
Save those flowers for the tombs of
those whose indifference gives them
purpose.  Give to the living your
weak and warty wounds and see
what blossoms can grow in the
fertile, yielding  soil of your own
gasping authenticity.

Willow

Willow willow...why do you weep?
I am here, I do not sleep.
Like you, I have no lasting rest.
Like you, I never pass that test.
I lie and wonder what waits ahead.
My restless rustlings confound my bed.
I sweat and breathe and cry and moan,
but peace is not for me to own.
What we want cannot be found
in house or church or in the ground.
If it ever finds its way
past dewy dark and dreary day,
to greet you on some fateful morn
and kindles in you hope reborn,
Would you kindly send reply
by lifting up your branches high?
But if not, then don’t despair
for I will stroke your leafy hair.
Keep thyself most bowed and bent
and I will follow your descent.
You can hollow out my fears
and I will catch and guard your tears.
Together we shall always be
part weeping girl and crying tree.
And time and wind will pass us through,
and leave us with a grayish hue,
and I shall  draw my final breath
and enter into final death.
Weeping then, alone you’ll be.
Sweet friend, I hope you weep for me.

Looking For Lazarus

Reaching for you was always down

Through layers of dejected dirt,
My muddy fingernails dig into
your dusty dreams, to salvage
them from the death encroaching
upon the fringes of your world.  
Looking for Lazarus, but finding
Judas at my back. An empty
sepulcher of salty sufferings
is my only inheritance.  You
pass them to me as you turn away
and leave me in the tainted
terrain where you no longer seek
resurrection.  

A white, white world is all around
A dirty, dirty girl is what I found
Beyond the layers of you.
Smudges that will not erase
Remain behind on your face
And cover this insidious place,
Where now I must try to find
love.

Mother Martyr

Mother martyr, may I smile,

May I sing for a little while?
May I feel just a little bit good,
The way the little really should?
May I please forget all about you,
Just for a little moment or two?
May I feel I’ve done something right,
May I sleep in peace tonight?
May I skip and jump and play
Without your glare and hell to pay?
May I not have to close my ears
Against your hoarse and bitter tears?
May I close my eyes and see
No big, black hole waiting for me?
Mother do I have to know
That daddy had his seeds to sow?
Can I please forget all about
The man you have to live without?
Can I pretend for just one day
That I didn’t make him go away?
I’d like to say that I knew
The one he really left was you.
I know, I know that’s just so wrong,
But my fantasy won’t last too long.
All I’m asking for is a break
From this hell I have to take.
I’ll return to my fear and shame
After I play this little game.
Mother Martyr, I’ll pay my dues,
I’ll always be the one to lose.
I’ll do anything you ask of me
If just this once you’ll let me be
A little girl without a care,
Instead of the heavy cross you bear.