There are six coffin bearers carrying a box,
It was a solemn procession with priests and pastors,
Rituals performed; requiems sung; lamentations heard,
Who is in the coffin? Who are the coffin bearers?
A flash of interrogations hit my heart and mind:
Where do they carry the body in the coffin?
Who are the priests and pastors to the one who is breathless?
Why are lamentations ‘sung’? Why are rituals?
Are they to please the breathless corpse?
Where is the breathless corpse taken to?
Beyond doubt, the destination of the corpse is the cemetery.

Mourners and pallbearers are hired not by the corpse,
Dance performed; refrains gusted out;
Garlands of melancholic florets thrashed out;
Beats of unpleasantness resounded.

A silent spell practiced on the last journey of the corpse;
Neither a pallbearer nor the folks raised any slogan;
But everyone’s prayer in silence realized.

I am a passerby walking with a lot of reflections,
The coffin bearers shall be carried too one day,
The priests and the pastors will be taken in processions,
Rituals, requiems and lamentations will be enacted.
Coffins are ready for all with mourners and pallbearers,
Dance, refrains, garlands and beats shall be added to glooms.

I ask myself: when is my day?
Who shall make my coffin?
I cannot hear requiems in my long sleep,
I am far from rituals; dumb to lamentations,
I must reach my destination, whether l like or not,
Folks will never come with me,
For I came with nothing and leave with nothing.
Where do I go? Where does everyone go?
I cannot be a passerby to my own last journey.

I long for my day; it may not be my will;
But the day to all is predestined,
And we are to leave this shadow of life.

So, when is my day?

my father was a
pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most
and especially children.

He was a ‘gallant’ (gaaa~laant)
of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg
and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and
who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins
in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed
when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint,
was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green
diamond miracle
in the Bronx hidden,
as he, small businessman,
worked six days a week,
and had no time
for juvenile sports pastimes,
otherwise, he was my
All-American…

Otherwise, he was perfect

How can the fireflies flit
from a bough to a highest place
just below the Milky Way,
without you here.

How can the blooms of summer
arise in your absence,
how can the cherish that
sparkles between young adults
conversing on a park bench -
go on, without us,
in my memory,
we walk by them,
holding hands, as,
we were once them.

Is this but a tragic dream -
as I pray over your
bedding of repose,
your gleaming white headstone,
in a long unwavering line
of other white headstones,
then, sweet assurance
speaks to me,
though the song of taps
separated us,
one day, the song of taps
will unite us.

she don’t read my poetry no more


not that I blame her, she’s in the majority,
moreover, she’s got ESP womanly seniority,
sensing what I ain’t saying, before I’ve even
had a chance to think it through ain’t it clear

these double negations,
for the rest of you,
reflecting my slip slidin' away,
a slowing indirection of virulent
side effects spiraling sideways, ain’t it clear

everyone’s shouting
the end is yay! nearing,
but the  endings risk is trebling,
meaning meanings be altering,
all the same, ain’t exactly unclear

she asks me where I’m going,
to the pharmacy replied, perversely,
feeling unlucky, a sure sign it’s high time
to buy a lottery ticket, given my inversity,
gods of fortuna singing ain’t it clear

****, she says, you went to university,
you know the odds are just plain stupidity,
not in my favor, my reply, meaning exactly,
ain’t it clear, everything and so, nothing to fear

**ain’t it clear

They see me wearing skirts and stilettos
living my life in falsetto
which they claim a false meadow
and all call out hell no.

They call me godless
when I crossdress
in this frost mess
of lost guests.

They call me a queen
just to be mean
I am what they deem
what they instantly gleam.

Some don’t like what’s different
so the townspeople pick up their pitchforks
they want to diminish my imprint
I guess that’s what they call me a ***** for.

They despise the flamboyant game
coming from my derelict frame
they ask if I feel no shame
I ask them the same.

Every time I’m on the verge
of a dirge
they swerve
from my verve.

While I walk on the air
they watch and they stare
envy ensnared
jealousy scared.

I see myself as ethereal
and try to be pure
they see a disease venereal
in need of a cure.

They say men mustn’t be feminine
even if it is genuine
and there’s a place they’ll send you in
to die with the men who sin.

They order me to mask my grin
and act masculine
but I never asked to win
so I bask in sin.

I search for connection
turning in the direction
of those interested in my *******
not my introspection.

They’re so ******
they’re so catty
they’re just wishing
for a daddy.

The lo-fi
don’t know why
I go cry
and don’t pry.

Excruciating wonders
tear me asunder
until all of my plunder
is a magnanimous blunder.

My throat gets a mite coarse
from the blight force
of their high horse
on my white porch.

My tonsil gets scratchy sore
once they freeze my core
and I sing no more
exiting the door.

I can’t speak
let alone sing
my body is weak
and so are my wings.

They want me in their baritone
narrow home
where sparrows go
to carol no.

I see the slinking bass
ruining this stinking place
engendering a sinking face
whenever I get a thinking taste.

There’s a sharp staccato
in the places I will not go
where the race of evil taught notes
lower than my shipwrecked boat.

I go underwater like the Maldives
silently we all scream
living in our small dreams
rooting for our ball teams.

Once they see I’ve drowned
they hand me back my crown
and tell me not to look so down
after I’ve been gagged and bound.

I respond to their monotony
noddingly
plotting the
same odyssey.

I adopt the stature
of Margaret Thatcher
I’m the student’s master
like a brimstone pastor.

Now I sing as low as I can go
and my flow is extra slow
because I could never grow
living my life in falsetto.