The sand-filled boy
became bottom-heavy,
his past running through him,
holding him down.
Always so worried about time
running out
that he never learned to turn
somersaults
and reverse the process.
When they buried him, of course,
he found an equilibrium.
If he had been able to care,
he might have been happy with that.
people talked about
health care
the zombie apocalypse
the difference between Irish whiskey
and Scotch whisky
someone drunk dialed a friend
to tell her she had a great ass
a monkey was mentioned
two guys expressed admiration
for the closeness they shared
one time in a rainstorm
no physical contact happened, y’know
but they understood each other
as co-combatants in a struggle
great wings beating
against the kitchen window
went virtually unnoticed for a time
but eventually someone asked
who heard that?
is that an angel or a bat?
or perhaps a flying monkey?
someone cued up
the Wizard of Oz
to try and settle the argument
then it was back to the zombies
and their dead eyes
someone said they’d starve here
everyone laughed
leaving the question of what was hovering
above the house
unanswered
till the next morning
the shocked phone calls
the denial
the newspaper article
the radio report
the burst heads cradled
in unbelieving hands
Sondra, you don’t know it
but you’re now officially dead.
You could have avoided it, but now
it’s too late. You just ate the egg
containing the specific cholesterol
that will break free from an artery,
block your heart and kill you
a couple of years from now.
None of us avoids the end, and none of us
really knows which of our many decisions
get us there long before the moment itself.
Even the gun toters, the leapers, the razor children
get there long before they choose their weapons
for the duel they are going to lose. It’s the way
of things: every choice a final choice, no matter
what we actually choose.
Whether your Eventual Stairway
leads up or down,
you’re on the approach now, Sondra,
walking briskly toward a handrail not yet in sight.
Don’t strain yourself, not that it matters really,
certain consequences are certain now
and while you don’t know exactly
when they’ll be felt, they will be, and it won’t be good,
Sondra, it won’t be good…but lucky for you,
you don’t have a clue. You can’t hear me.
I can only watch tenderly and never let on. If you knew,
you would call it cruel. Imagine how I feel before you judge…
but that’s unimportant. Anyway, I will one day let you know
that it wasn’t all for naught…see,
earlier today,
when you sang “Hotel California”
in the shower for the third-to-the-last time?
Next time, I promise you’ll be in tune. And the time after that,
you’ll be even better. And when you sing it
for the last time I will make you feel better
than you ever have felt. You’ll step out wet
and reach for the towel.
You’ll dry yourself off
and turn toward the sun-filled window.
What happens after that, I cannot say.
since it is decreed
that everyone shall mourn them
I shall write a poem of mourning
in which I say that I do not
mourn them
except as selfishness applies
in the sense of mourning
things they are not here to produce
which I might have enjoyed
even though I did not enjoy
the products they did produce
when they were here
so I do not mourn
what potential they did not achieve
as it was nothing I anticipated
if I mourn anything
in a genuine way
I mourn the connections I have made
with others in heated discussions
of the worth or character of the dead
and their efforts
the memories of the faces of those
who joined me in my opinions
and argued on my side and then
we went for breakfast still talking
of anything other than where we began
and the faces of those who later became friends
agreeing to let the disagreements stand
as no obstacle to respect
so we shared a drink and talked again
of anything but the topic that separated us
what those who died have done for me
is offer me
a place to stand while i determined
my own path
what they did is only as important to me
as to how much it allows me
to make my own stand
it makes me
feel all-american
to use a celebrity death
for my own purposes
Dark Matter 