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joseph-vallePoems
I know why he laughs everyday, every single day. Telephone poles line the streets, a young man giving message to loved ones reminding them of his travels south, to stay, to visit, birds fly through air upon hearing gunshots in alleyways escaping to freedom, to cold winds, away from dark figures in the night. The postman drops off mail by foot, in the golden flap-slot at 312 Baker Street, while waving hello to the little boy in the window, the one who will surely die suddenly at the age of 20, driving drunk, open casket, bloated face. Mother blotchy from tears and stress for eyes that will never see another day. I know why he laughs day after day after day. The ribbons tied around presents under a tree, lights infiltrating closed eyelids giving off colors never seen before, never to be seen friends, family, arms interlocked whispering thanks, warm nothings with nothing to be seen, except deals behind closed doors an uncle over a nephew, unheard tears and gasping for breath lost behind muffles of laughter and shouts of play, just play. I know why he laughs all day, it never ends. The work, the money, the vacations the form of form itself, the fact that form is, and that one abides by it, can even touch it, poke it, poke fun at it, and yet live by it, live their lives by it without question whether it be above or under grounds so cold, full of bodies, bodies no more, just run-down homes. Paint peeling and insects swarming, devouring all that was, bringing life anew for their comrades, rocks crumble tears of granite, marble, not tears, just erosion of the face. I know why he laughs every single ******* day, because with time like this, times like these, and everything in existence, beauty is an open eyelid. There’s no room for crying, none will hear it. Heads without ears, and eyes without lights.
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Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
Heads Without Ears, Eyes Without Lights
I know why he laughs everyday, every single day. Telephone poles line the streets, a young man giving message to loved ones reminding them of his travels south, to stay, to visit, birds fly through air upon hearing gunshots in alleyways escaping to freedom, to cold winds, away from dark figures in the night. The postman drops off mail by foot, in the golden flap-slot at 312 Baker Street, while waving hello to the little boy in the window, the one who will surely die suddenly at the age of 20, driving drunk, open casket, bloated face. Mother blotchy from tears and stress for eyes that will never see another day. I know why he laughs day after day after day. The ribbons tied around presents under a tree, lights infiltrating closed eyelids giving off colors never seen before, never to be seen friends, family, arms interlocked whispering thanks, warm nothings with nothing to be seen, except deals behind closed doors an uncle over a nephew, unheard tears and gasping for breath lost behind muffles of laughter and shouts of play, just play. I know why he laughs all day, it never ends. The work, the money, the vacations the form of form itself, the fact that form is, and that one abides by it, can even touch it, poke it, poke fun at it, and yet live by it, live their lives by it without question whether it be above or under grounds so cold, full of bodies, bodies no more, just run-down homes. Paint peeling and insects swarming, devouring all that was, bringing life anew for their comrades, rocks crumble tears of granite, marble, not tears, just erosion of the face. I know why he laughs every single ******* day, because with time like this, times like these, and everything in existence, beauty is an open eyelid. There’s no room for crying, none will hear it. Heads without ears, and eyes without lights.
joseph-valle
Written by
joseph-valle
American
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
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