egg roast

the following are a continuation of the echo of yesterday’s yesterday which was tomorrow then, but now are a bunch of murmurs that could be the house because it’s winter and the wind wishes to remind you of the enjoyment it gave you in summer though you put in ear plugs, climb into the bed’s mouth, and let yourself be digested by passing into the past and by reading the poems of poet’s long since dead but still very much alive. certainly more than you on somedays, which is why you read them – to remind you to breath and see your future in the naked space they left for all.

*

there’s a bluebird

in my heart

which softens me up

because i will get it

checked by a doctor

who will know nothing of

ornithology and will

conclude that it is a miracle

to be living with the living

when really it is just

a woodpecker creating

a home for a heart attack

*

“I am great OZYMANDIAS,” saith the stone,

but i was told this later

for my shadow blocked the light

to read the inscription

*

there is a place where the sidewalk ends

but there is another place where it begins

and is this an ending too

*

do not go gentle into that good night

because morning comes faultlessly

like a lady on a swing

in a pink skirt

hair like rope

tying all the universe together

*

death be not proud

for though some have called thee mighty

though art a warm blanket

of night and with it

the possibility of stars

that one day too

will grow cold

*

hail mary

full of grace

the lord is somewhere else

hail marying it

for he’s desperate for a change