437 Death poems

In the harsh glare of an easily reprehensible life. The channel changer is lost in the crack of an infinite sofa. Everything falls apart, everything breaks down, torn into a million fragments, Jericho everyday. I want to be the blameless victim in this canceled puppet show, the marionette every mother loves, the one souvenirs are modeled from. (In that lifetime, Elton John will write mushy ballads just for me. Michael Jackson will want to be my best friend. He’d take me to the Neverland Ranch, and by the llama feeding trough, he’d say something like, “You’re a great guy, don’t give up, stay positive!” And I’d say, “Michael, you fucking idiot, I am positive!” And he’d say, “Oh, you’re so funny! Would you like to touch Bubbles?” And I would.) In the crux of my hollow innocent youth, I believed that my teddy bears had feelings. To cure me of this, my guardians made me give them to the church missionaries’ children. Scrubbed-clean rosy-cheeked blonde kids who smelled of sweat and talc, who were in constant wide-blue-eyed bewilderment as to why they were profusely perspiring in the tropics, instead of living out some winter wonderland Bobsey Twins fantasy, who were oblivious to their parents’ desperate efforts to save the dusky masses, ignorant enough to believe in the secret lives of stuffed animals. I could not eat animal crackers because I did not want to hurt the poor things; but, braised the right way, I could eat any part of a pig, starting with the head, working on the soft flesh around the eyes, savoring its raspy tongue with a dipping sauce of ginger, chilies and lime. Oh blameless innocent victim. What measures a lifetime? I used to have this theory about how much life a human body could hold. It all had to do with the number of heartbeats. Each human is assigned a number determined by an unknown power cascading over the dark waters of the unformed Earth. For some, it was a magnificently high number, seen only in Richie Rich comics, and for others, it was frightfully low, like twenty-six. No bargaining, no coupons, no White Flower Day sale, no specials. Once you hit your number, you croak. I imagined the angels in heaven and the demons in hell gathering to watch the counters turn, like how I enjoyed watching the speedometer line up to a row of similar numbers, and especially when the row of nines turned into the row of zeros. Oh blameless innocent victim. What measures eternity? An eternal damnation. An everlasting love. I could not imagine the night sky stretched out forever, so I decided that it came to an end at some point, by a velvet rope it ended and beyond that rope were row after row of cushioned seats, a majestic cosmic theater, playing every movie I can remember. I want to be able to evoke those blameless and innocent days, to revel in their ignorance and goodness as if they have the power to protect and to heal, and to strengthen, and to bring me to safety long after all other resources were exhausted. But I emerge anew in the wreckage, blinking in the sunlight, the residue of salt water in my belly. You know what they say, God never closes a door before making sure that the windows are barricaded and the fire escape is inaccessible. I used to know how to stop the revolution of planets. I used to know how to save the world. Now, I don’t know anything anymore.

Once, as I was burying one of my dead selves, the grave-digger came by and said to me, “Of all those who come here to bury, you alone I like.” Said I, “You please me exceedingly, but why do you like me?” “Because,” said he, “They come weeping and go weeping—you only come laughing and go laughing.”

Carnations are best. Or roses, tight, before they go blowsy. Daffodils last. Tulips are no good — go limp soon as you look at ’em. Lilies are OK, but mark us with rust you can’t shift. Mam asks too many questions. We leave the lilies. Doug and me — we’re quick. When the earth is fresh we circle in to harvest. This is our meadow. Stem first into plaggy bags we ribbon from our pockets, then off, running the back way to the village. To the florist, past wreaths and In Memoriam s, where the old lady will peer at our haul, sniff, mebbe give us change from her pouch. Her sleeve is more snot-streaked than mine. And nails blacker. Some days Mam says she don’t understand why I leave me tea but other times I’ve hollow legs. I shrug. Tongue the toffee in a back tooth.

Good gracious.You again. And it is always you asking to borrow cigarettes and time. We are exhaling on the curb. Mouths heating with a debate. Yellow town lights bleed desperate wings against our faces. Testimonies of a good man tonight. The “Jesus Camp” story, stoicism and smoke smiles.My mother shot a man. The ember pinches your fingertips with a desperate kiss.Does that make her a bad woman? We all die. Does it matter?

Man, looking into the sea— taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself— it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing but you cannot stand in the middle of this: the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave. The firs stand in a procession—each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top— reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look. There are others besides you who have worn that look— whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them for their bones have not lasted; men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave, and row quickly away—the blades of the oars moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death. The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam, and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed; the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore— the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink— in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

I see the ships, the plotted crash, The stateroom’s purgatory trash, The waiting wedged and still no splash. There is the torch that burns not through Unless it drowns the sailor crew Shoring the bulkhead pinning you. And then the priest who, being ill, Intones through steel the bitter pill: This tomb is your last confession grille. I think of you awake in bed, Praying what all the voyage said: Have done with dying and be dead. It is a pride in loneliness Like some propriety of dress That shuns the water meant to bless; My hand as from a magnet pole Works to the Sunday dipping bowl To spot my tie and cross my soul.

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me And the silence will set out Tireless traveler Like the beam of a lightless star Then I will no longer Find myself in life as in a strange garment Surprised at the earth And the love of one woman And the shamelessness of men As today writing after three days of rain Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease And bowing not knowing to what

For those who ran in the streets, there were no faces to welcome them back. José escaped and loved the war. For those who swam with bitterness of a scorched love, there was a rusted car to work on. For those who merely passed and reclined in prayer, there was the tower and the cross. For those who dedicated tongues to the living and dying, there were turquoise painted doorways. For those who left their children tied to the water heater, there was a shout and a name. For those whose world was real and beautiful, there was a cigarette and a saint. For those who asked José to stay and feed his children, there were flowers at their funerals. For those who carried a shovel tattooed on their backs, there was a wet towel and a bottle. For those who swept the street of superstition and lie, there was the house to come home to. For those who came home late and put their swollen feet up, there was love and the smell of dirty socks. For those who feared the devil and spit on his painted arms, there was a lesson in rosaries. For those who had to leave before the sun went down, there was asphalt and a bus. For those who stared at wet plaster and claimed the face of Christ appeared, there was confinement and stale bread. For those who talked with each other and said it was time to go, there was lead in the paint and on the tongue. For those who left children behind, there was a strange world of sulphur and sparrow nests. For those who accused their ancestors of eating salt, there were these hands tracing what was left after the sweat.

Nobody I know is a god. A mother and son fall into the river's million hands, the river's smash and grab. They go under, climb the ropeless water up, wave, open their mouths and scream wet silences as they slide back under. A man jumps in to save them, leaves the edge as a needle into the river's muddy sinews, a woman jumps in to save his vanishing and the mother and son and is stripped by the flood, her pants drowning right beside her, another man jumps in to save them all and a woman jumps in after him to save them all plus one, cars arrive and people get out and leap into the river, the river's being filled with whatever's in their pockets and their hands and their eyes, with nickels and dollar bills and bibles and sunsets, the beautiful brush strokes of this beautifully dying day, people pile like a river inside the river, they keep coming and diving in, they keep feeding their breath to the water, which is less, which is thinned, until the mother and son rise on a mound of strangers and dead, the sun warming them, blessing their faces slowly dry.

No more than that Dead cat shall I Escape the corpse I kept in shape For the day off Immortals take