I have often thought of myself as an angel of death.
Destruction meekly keeps step with my pacing vigil,
and blooms wherever I might rest.
In truth I blindly seek it out
Guided by a waning star,
groping in the blackness.
to find at the precipice of stumbling disaster,
An observatory,
Where a great expanse of purpose can be viewed.
A veil is lifted,
And we are swaddled and lulled into reform.

As dust mingles with contrasting shadow,
So do we mingle in an ethereal realm.
Awaiting an equinox,
Or celestial alignment,
Of the body and the soul.
Seeking a corner of the universe,
Where we might meditate on our grief.

You looked saintly,
With your head tilting downwards,
Like Madonna in Pietà.
At peace,
To greet your heavenly messengers,
Of jovial cherubs with golden horns
Swirling in their circling dance.
Trumpets lift the fluttering chorus.
As they lead you by the hand.

Your youngest son,
In a brief visit,
Sat beside you in your aphasic reverie,
As he left he said,
'Bye bye mom',
For the very last time.
Even pushing fifty,
He is still your baby boy.

The afternoon of your departure,
with your hollow vessel in it's room.
We discussed mortuaries and memorials,
And when to disrupt the family,
(In the middle of their labor day barbecues),
With the news.

While the neighbors are raffling their joys,
In their respective complexes,
This house,
At the end of the lane,
Floats disjointed from the material world,
  and the journey through the infinite vacuum,
Without tethers,
To time and space.
Is debasing to say the least.
Dissolving expectations and resolving the ego,
As we dress your body in your favorite colors.

It seems just,
that as a young man,
I should devote my time:
in whatever increments,
minutes, hours, days, years,
A whole lifetime even,
(Because you will be with me in thought).
So that in your twilight,
Your sun may set on the tenderest horizon,
of the most bountiful season,
And rise again,
more prosperous,
Tomorrow...

There is speak of latency
and pregnant pauses,
for epochs.
From Cambrian to Devonian,
and all things antediluvian.
The stone, the bronze, the golden age.
and the age of wood and wool,
Of wool,
and wood.
Of mahogany,
and mohair.
An age of comfort and kindness,
of nanas wasting idly in rocking chairs,
Knitting sweaters big as continents,
for the sons and daughters,
Of their sons and daughters.
with the loom and swoop and stitch.
While each toc and tic,
Turns grandma to dust
and to death
Then to be latent again,
in a universe of dust.
A star, with a secret harbor,
of virtue.
A constellation, lassoed,
in her honor.
Blessing all with patience
Shining benevolent,
and intentionless,
For all to see.

Down by some babbling bank,
my past lives superimpose,
Upon my own.
And it was near,
toxic waters,
where I was born.
And primordial bubbles
unearthed a bone.
From which,
I was fashioned and formed.

Though ghosting tongues,
do bobble and flap,
In  gaping cambrian mouths.
they are mute, finite and fixed.
Which does none to please me,
in my present state.
Stoic and unashamed
like a marble crying fountain,
whose tears reach to the saints,
The cobblers.
the warlords,
and snakes,
that I might have been.

So if I regress,
so far,
To the point of hatred
I will reserve it
for those,
Who deserve it:
Those preceding me.
because they never did give any good advice.

These words were here so long,
they seeped into the page.
They were here,
but not really understood.
For there are gaping nuances,
Dialects of swift innocence
Lost,
in the ever-branching limb
of comfort and necessity

I brush their meaning;
when I stay,
But dream of leaving.
For they are transient in nature,
And made in the same ways as dreams.
I need only observe and dream with them,
but lose them in their spastic feints.
Like, perfectly evolved fractals,
dissolving, back to chaos.

Yes, they are made like dreams,
I know because they go on and on,
Seemingly forever.
and they form us,
As we weave,
and tangle their meaning.

Wearing nothing but a blanket,
  wrapped loosely 'round my hips,
There's a swelter and a swagger,
  when I sweep the floor with it,
As I wander through the kitchen,
  to the window facing east.
Where the last of wilting jasmine,
  tries desperately to cling.
To the cool and most reviving shade,
  of the persimmons tree.

I watch after your mother.
between dizzy-spells and cups of tea,
I read to her the latest styles,
from fashion magazines.
Her mind is a riddle,
  and ridden with dementia
She asks, "What's in the box?",
though there doesn't seem to be one.
I suspect she means the tissue,
and I tell her that it is.
Then she gives me a great smile,
just like a little kid.

I spent the day in idleness,
I could think of nothing better,
Than to do exactly what I'm doing,
Waning in this shelter.
I lay in bed on the side
where you sleep facing me.
I smelled your smell,
to decipher it.
Masculine yet sweet.
I'm feeling like a treasure chest,
I don't have a use.
Until you want to open me,
to steal my gold doubloons.