Now with the Ides of March gone
There lies only dead leaves
Dead fruit, dead doves
And Spring flowers.
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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.
Words Of An Average White Male 