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.