-
in the cold, hard ground
on the anniversary of my father’s passing, october 26, 2005
_______
we are all waiting to die
my feet begin to feel numb
no one is thinking of me
fading here
_______
sunlight-filled voices outside
but not visible
dreamy semi consciousness
morphine enhanced to pleasantry
_______
can’t smell myself
but see noses wrinkle
as they enter
the sick zone
_______
piss and spit and sleep
worn sheets
carpet needs vacuuming
by someone
_______
trivialities
disconnecting me
from awareness
simple slipping blackness
_______
and cold ground to
greet the ashes
i’m thinking flowers
and faces clustered above
_______
losing me is not so sudden
anticipated
no one expects the expected
infant to adult
_______
if we last that long
everything withers eventually
and blood accompanies some of it
but not here
_______
as afternoon passes
and dusk nears
a final sigh
and i am clear
Spawned by laconic and indifferent novelists, I did not know that writing would become my profession until a poem composed on a chilly, wet October evening moved an acquaintance to tears. That poem was not written by me, but it was nonetheless inspiration enough to cause me to submit a succession of works to my college literary magazine. Years later, after the restraining order expired, I decided to make this my profession, despite the lack of any expression of enjoyment or understanding on the part of my few, but avid, readers. I only hope you find this as fulfilling as I. All posts © 2009-2010 All rights reserved. Use without permission will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
