I understand how religion cuts
tell a boy to eat a crumb
he may not want to
Stomp his hand until he eats
Tell a teenage girl to Not
go out, slap her, point your
pathetic fat finger in her face.
Tell a man how to walk
like the rest of the sheep.
We listen to crumbs fall and care about where they land
more than we care about the voices that caress us at night. Put a hat on a man facing a jury he’s aligned with. Stitch his mouth. The hat has spoken and the willing jury stands in approval. A funny thing happens with truth. We haven’t found the end of it yet.
Fuck your crumbs and let’s listen to non-speech with a hat until the fucking hat starts talking while your crumbs fall out of your pockets looking for work. Isn’t this a nice thing. Isn’t this such a nice fucking thing. A man once rode a ride into death on a cross.
I do wonder what he thought about a crumb. I’d like to save that man.
My family is riddled with suicide
I myself am not suicidal
Quite the opposite. I love life.
In fact for much of my life I’ve experienced
Jealousy from others over my ability
To be happy in terrible situations
And unfortunately I’ve been forced to live
through a few extra ordinarily bad situations
But that’s OK. I learned to enjoy watching leaves drop
And how to find solace in the darkness of my eyelids
Nothing is too large for me to handle
My confidence, I’m forced to shade, yet people still see
And it bothers them
And so be it
I was the one ready for the midnight phone call
When he said he’d taken the pills
With the alcohol and that he’d be dead soon
I was the one on the phone when the police
entered his home with the paramedics
Listening to him scream for them to leave
I was the one who calmed him
The one that walked his mind to the ambulance
to thank the police and EMTs for trying to
let him live
I called the hospital they were taking him to
I was on the phone with their personnel in the
Emergency room while he was being wheeled in
‘Yes, we’ll have a psychiatrist sent in as soon
as they empty his stomach. Thank you for this
information.’ I had to tell them things he would
not have. The root of his weakness.
I don’t know why these things happen
I know that I am blessed because these moments
are never too large for me.
He is now happily married and an amazing father
And one of my favorite people on this Earth
I told him two years before he tried committing suicide
that he was going to try to end his life
So when the phone rang and I saw the number
I was ready
Because I’ve already lost too many family members
So no, I am not suicidal, but I write about death and suicide
because I know it well and I know its pace
and the path it takes
I am not afraid of death
I am concerned with the process which leads to death
I think to die well matters
And if you haven’t found your absolute truth of
how this all works
Well, I hope you do
Because I know beyond doubt
That we are not alone
Solemnly the boy walked alone wanting to know how memories could sing. He passed himself, his grave, his smile, his teeth grinding. Is it not nice following what we once never knew. A tree shivered off itself to become more, having seen the boy. ‘Wish to know about memories?’ asked the tree. ‘I do.’ replied the boy. ‘Come here. I’ve just ruined myself for you.’ the boy walked on.
Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song
Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask
Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.
for others to dismantle.
Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it
My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.
when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
I invite and encourage you to decipher this ending paragraph of the short story, ‘The Man of the Crowd,’ written by Edgar Allan Poe.
The Man of the Crowd
‘This old man,’ I said at length,’ is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the “Hortulus Animae,” and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that es lasst sich nicht lesen.’ -E.A. Poe