Posted in Death


Uncertain of direction we follow a friend.
A nice day for it
weather the default topic when
conversation is awkward
or estranged.

“It.” The impersonal neutral
often used as bypass
to speaking awfulness out loud
comfortable code adhered to by all
except children and the uncouth.

Down a shy road cars fold sequentially
on to the grass siding, a train switching tracks.
A moment to reassemble emotional reserve
a dignified walk to the graveside.

Wind swirls the costume of clergy
anxious hands chase unrestrained hair.
Words settle into silence
a nod indicates absolution – visas are complete.

Twelve feet shuffle forward and thread
umbilical hemp through chrome handles.
The tension of life unfolds with gravity
and is released with inaudible arrest.

Popular culture abducts language
holding words as single purpose slaves.
Intimacy = couples, beneath sheets.
But here in the wind roughed sunshine
love’s final goodbye
the most intimate of all experiences.

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Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.