el dia de los muertos

the dead don’t dream
but lie sleepless in tombs
meditating on the nature of flesh

and the fortitude of the

insomniate soul

the dead take no meat
but pass the time
in hungry contemplation
(or dreadful anticipation)
of the feast to come

the dead take no drink
but sip the dregs

of roads not taken
of opportunity passed
or grabbed up by the lapels
and shaken the dead don’t dance

until they rise.

------------------

Onion Tears

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,

et quantum est hominum venustiorum:

passer mortuus est meae puellae,

passer, deliciae meae puellae,

quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.

(Catullus 3)

Long did we mourn

poor Lesbia's sparrow

who sang without care

in that sweet lady's lap;

Long do we mourn poor Quintus.

Bird/man the pair unwit players

in four acts of love

whose final chorus

a killing most foul

Curtain rises on Sparrow

as he sips from Love's hand,

and falls in the fading light

of her husband's eyes Long Do

We Mourn poor Quintus

while Lesbia merely laughs,

the motives of the male

too easily understood.

Quintus never saw it coming

and so to Catullus...

(Image: Turner, Ancient Rome, Aggripina landing with the ashes of Germanius)

Ein - Sof

I have no story
only a word to tell.
It tumbles from my mouth
in a harsh and raspy whisper
The word becomes the story.
The word becomes planet,
bird and beast of the field;
The word becomes man.

I have no story

only a word to tell.

It tumbles from my mouth
in a bellow, in a roar
The word becomes the story.
The word becomes Moses
shouting "Let My People Go,"
The word becomes flesh.

I have no story
only a word to tell.

It tumbles from my mouth

in a blaze of light and glory

and the word becomes the story.

The word becomes barriers broken

and the sound of tombstones burst;

The word becomes.

(Image: Hubble Space Telescope, Composite of the Eagle Nebula)

Transition

We should have had an inkling
when the geese refused to fly.
Saturdays we’d trudge through newfell snow,
we'd skate across the frozen lake
listening in the distance for the sound of
plaintive cries and the sense of

shadow overheard.

October November
on into December
they cried until the solstice
and an early morning call,
they cried until a cold voice.
We spent the day in bed
hiding under quilts and covers.
We spent the day in silence
because if you don’t say,
it isn’t so.

Next day we struggled into
worn flannels boots and down.
We trudged through a field
of untouched snow
stepped out onto the lake,
ears accosted by an empty wind
accompanied only by the sound
of silence.

(Image: Picasso, Blue Nude)

Fearless

One of these days
I'll walk across the wire--
I'll dance across the wire

in misfitted toeshoes while

singing at the top of my

voice no care

for whether it cracks

no thought for whether

it's sharp or flat.

I'll dance across the wire

juggling balls and balloons

and when I fall
I'll jump back up
dust the dirt off my butt
and bow to the crowd
with a flourish.







(Image: Joan Miro, Singing Fish)

Deus ex machina

It’s about coherence
take away coherence and
it all falls apart
Falls apart flies apart
flies into fragments bits pieces
as it flew in the bang before
God gave us gravity
Take away gravity
Subtract us to the sum
of our molecules but some
of our molecules
will hold to the glue
will hold to gravity
and gravity
is the glue that

holds our bodies to the earth holds
our feet into the dirt holds
our minds until the mind
makes its own rules meanders
Meanders flies
Flies into tangents
Tangents rants
Rants rages until
coherence pullsitbacktogether
and it keeps.


It’s about
coherence
take away
coherence and

it

ALL

F
A
L
L
S


A P A R T





(Image: Francisco Toledo, Self Portrait, Masks)

Yellow Elephant

My father never had much
give for government
God knows if he paid his taxes but
he never completed the count and he
burnt his draft card and he
danced on its remains in a

robust salute to our dear Uncle Victor

most ironically lost in the war.

My father a digger At Woodlawn,
a white man with roses in his cheeks
until he turned Yellow.
Weeks on end he’d filled jugs
with jaundiced water
and on it went…
Uncle Sam stepped in and
shut the place down.
Social service stepped in with
endless questions
answers paid for with
surplus cheese and
oily peanut butter and
powdered milk that mixed
into the consistency of a gluey gruel.
My father a digger At Woodlawn until
Yellow reared its ugly head and
nearly broke the man
with no give for government
who was given no choice now
but to take.

(Illustration: Julie Paschkis, Yellow Elephant, A Bright Bestiary)