When dead men tell no tales.
My poetry still spouts from the grave,
to the tune of taps, a melody over the air,
signaling I shan't be saved.
She drops me off at the intersection of last year and tomorrow.
I look ahead with anticipation and
behind with sorrow.
Why do I cry out in distress?
Is my life really such an unheralded mess?
Or, is this path of distraught paths really the
god’s way of kissing me, saying, “son, you are
These pills cloud me, the gods of medicine hear
my plea and require a copay, a fee.
My vowels propel through space and time,
With a rhyme I dance with the
art angels in a basement of grime.
Carry me on the wings of pestilence,
I refuse to let go of this golden glow.
4am 5am 6am
as I wander,
where this absent cavity in my chest
will be filled.
I go to the ocean, to the sea,
only to see the waves lap against me and,
for a moment I feel free, yet still absent from life.
I traverse the plains to find myself
lost in an empty great wild American praire expanse,
until I find myself trembling at the foothills
of the great mountains rocky of the west.
Climb, I must, or die alone and
hungry still absentness beating
within my chest.
4am 5am 6am