a silent mass

I never wrote a word, not until

I’d said my peace,

misconstrued and gnawed on,

beaten to a pulp,

dead as embers—burnt black on arrival

to a silent mass, ready

and aching to be heard.

The Devil to one is God to another.

The Devil to one

is God to another.

It’s a cycle continued

that is, until

we stop looking to the sky,

stop burying our trauma,

and look our neighbor

dead in the eye,

without retaliation or judgement

and listen, to one another’s heart

which beats to the same rhythm

as a newborn babe

that is, until

birth begins

its earthly decay.

I’d rather be shot dead.

I need someone

with gun in hand

cocked cold and ready

against my head

perhaps then

I’d have the reason

to finish this all red eh

I’ve lost interest

with no six gauge to my chest

fire crackers maybe

I’ve the strength to digest

Hell who am I kidding

I’m no good at roulette

but to settle for less, no

I’d rather be shot dead.

this tiny secret

Dying

Everything

Everyone

Always dying

Dead

And gone

People live

People die

And die

And on

For what is life

Without death

Knowing this

tiny secret, that

In death

there too

Is life.

Dead is never Dead

Nothing

Dead

is ever fully Dead

until it is

But even then

we play with it

we spoil it

we serve it

We give it enough strength

so that it can live again

Even when it kills us

Dead is never Dead

Straight to the point.

Soak

your feet

for close to an hour

in hot water

then

peel back

the skin

flaking, like

skin does

dead

after soaking your foot

in hot water

close

to an hour,

then write that way.