the white walls
of the funerary bath
glow with morning light
Funerary Bath [Haiku]
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Category Archives: Death
The Axeman [Free Verse]
Hangman... Axeman... Guillotine art-eest... Stool-kicker... Lever-yanker... Elongator of necks... His motto: "Making them deader than your average beheader." Sharpening his blade, Split hair-testing Precise as the Taoist butcher -- blade between bone, no nicks allowed Killer of killers, an audience thriller Step right up... Any last words? Masked & shirtless + pudgy & sweaty He's the hangman, the axeman, a killer of killers.
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Necropolis [Haiku]
the necropolis sprawls across the desert -- desolate... to us
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Bardo Mind [Free Verse]
lost in a disembodied Bardo state fantastical happenings mainlined into consciousness with a side of swirling phantasm and all the angry demons and all the faceless gods churn around the periphery
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The War Mangled [Free Verse]
I heard the dead children, their voices lilting on the wind. The war-torn twice born came crawling in under the wire, bloody and shell-shocked, but among the living, but the rest floated away: their words becoming both milder & more raucous, never fully drowned out by bombs or crossfire chaos.
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Suicide Slide [Free Verse]
One burning moment -- taffy-stretched to the edge of reason: stretched so broadly that one can't fathom escape - like Monkey on the Buddha's palm One burning idea -- cloned, and then carved to make infinite variants, and painted infinite shades: the dark tone of each darker than the last Burning ideas populating the vast expanse of a burning moment, until the urge to escape insists that one carve a hatch into living tissue But what is it that does the stretching of the burning moment & the cloning of the burning idea? Can't that stretcher and cloner be wound back, scaling all to proper proportions? And can't it be done before that terminal instant is carved in jagged stone?
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Midnight Circus [Free Verse]
The Midnight Circus was not as it seemed. It was bright colors: motion-blurred. It was the tinny monotony of music box-style tinkling tunes & organ tones. One could even make out the scent of fried foods and cotton candy, among the many other [uncircus-like] odors. But there was also the story a mind wrote to dance sensory facts into sensory fictions; that was where the falsity lie. If one opened one's eyes, letting them focus: there'd be sparking wires, & flames licking ever closer. The shrill organ tones would become screams. The summer night's humid heat would become third degree burns. The circus smells would become dust and death and acrid burnt combustibles. So, he didn't open his eyes to war or his impending demise, but let his mind march into that big musty, canvas tent, surrendering to its irreality.
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DAILY PHOTO: Mausoleums, Atlanta
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Cemetery Walk [Free Verse]
And in the end, the dead are still and the graveyard's quiet is not so bad. The monuments weather; in due time, letters become less crisp & dates become debatable. A clean read means there maybe someone left to mourn. And fresh flowers mean that someone has tracked their melancholy through the place, and the air feels heavier, and my mind feels heavier. And I read names: familiar & not, popular & not. I read names to distract me from thoughts of my own dead -- to avoid tracking my own melancholy through the place. For, you see, I've brought no flowers.
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Jacob’s Ladder [Free Verse]
I'm dripping into midnight -- my world has disappeared. My eyes crack to light and life, but I forgot to hear -- remembering, the silence is broken & I hear a rhythmic clack. But I can't help but wonder, where it is that I'm at? I'm at the bottom of a wooden staircase, too steep to be sound, looking up until perspective makes the case vanishingly thin. Should I climb the staircase? What else can I do? Will I wake half way up, and find myself in the blue? The laws of dreams force my hand, I can't stand paralyzed, and I'm halfway to infinity by means that I know not. And I'm thinking of the line from that children's prayer: "If I should die before I 'wake," and I think: "What the hell is wrong with parents?" that's the thought upon which you're going to leave with your child to "go to sleep?" And you're wondering why the kid is up all night? Because dying in one's sleep doesn't start to seem like a fine prospect until one is an octogenarian. And so I sleep...
Tiger Riding for Beginners 