When they are actually dead—
The body no longer in control of soul,
Under the ground, mixing with the life there.

Or when the soul is no longer in control of body?
Like a dictionary with no meaning to be found in it.

For me, I think the latter is what’s worse:
When I can no longer feel anything, just like the unliving,
And just live for the sake of living,
Like drinking water without thirst.
No longer caring about anything—
Be it myself or others.
A journey with no destination.

When I see the clock
But don’t feel the urgency of time passing,
Yet feel good that another day has passed—
That’s worse.

Breathing just for living,
And not to be alive, is worse.

But the worst of them all
Is watching people around me play their characters,
And feeling out of character
In my own book.

In these unified states
amazing fade-ins

A made-in Britain, Baileys bottle
subtle winter rattle, shaking
daydream from the poles

Scolded by the errant claim
that Old St George, is cross-eyed
lame and taking to the sherry...

Old Merry England!
- maybe-

That cherished land
that took my hand
That loved me

and forgave me

Poets come.

Poets go.

Poems remain—

left behind for someone

to read,

to admire,

and

to inspire

the next generation

to pick up the pen.

Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.

The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?

Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.

The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.

I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.

I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.

I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.

Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.

Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****.
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.

I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?

His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.

We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.

When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.

The courage of birds is burned
Into the forehead of the sick man
He breathes the sweat of war
With every step he sweats
The sick man carries countless scars
On his strong body — each one
A reminder that
He is meant to be alive now

The courage of birds is, in the sick man’s dream,
A returning motto:
Only the brave endure;
Fear leads to grief;
Grief to misfortune

The courage of birds guides the sick man —
That’s why he roars many times each day
The roaring releases the pain;
Then his scars twitch with relief

The courage of birds writes each day
Of the sick man with words in the colors of courage
Every wound — Greek trauma —
Gives wings to the courage of birds
Yet never without tremors —
Then the sick man weeps, ashamed

The courage of birds is not of this earth
But on earth it is the ticket
To happiness

The courage
The birds
The sick man
The happiness