He hasn't buried the baby within
but today he buried the ashes of his baby
crying like a baby
as the river devoured the bone dusts
and all the remnants
of the cuddles and kisses
hollowing him to remember
the guest of his blood
that would feed on his grief
for the rest of his life.

Don’t come to the cemetery at night Peter Xalxo would say
If you are so inclined make your visits in the day
For often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
And they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
Why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
When the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
And at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
But come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
For I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
The tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect some impact
They colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
To my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
Bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
When there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
This ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
Run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
Some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
He was such a good man and a great friend to miss
But God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.

Do not want
You in
Virtual reality

No breath on
My neck

Your flesh
Vibrates alive

Unrepresentable

Some mountains pretend
They are unmoving

Their subtle lie
Pretends to permanence.

We are apart
For some reason
I cannot fathom

But trust
The chi

The vitalis males in pink and yellow
hover over yesterday
in their penny loafers
Only ****** in action
certainly not in thought
Some would go to war to die
others became insurance salesmen or land developers
who would grow up and go
to casinos in Mississippi or New Jersey
Their perma pressed smiles
talked of football championships
that they loved almost as much
as deer hunting and certainly more
than their beauty Queen runner up wives
who took sleeping pills all to often
just before "goodnight"
Success was written on their foreheads
and in their wallets in plastic
Real manly words became gym talk
exposed like lashes on the backs of those who built this nation and raised our children
Talk is as cheap as Chinese steel that will be made in America again !
Ain't that gteat !

I'm okay at cooking
But I'm no Julia Child
So hopefully dinner tonight
Won't end up getting too wild