floating and leaving no trace
only the dead are perfect
perfect in silence
you say
oh, so-and-so is at peace
and you are not wrong
but the dead
keep moving
like a handful of
shining white teeth
flung
into a still pond
ghostly white
fading
as
they
descend out of sight
while above
ripples ring
and crest
you measure the
depth of each trough
as it slices through you
the silence of the dead
is the roar of the furnace
only the perfect dead
move without moving
windows 10, my own
personal hell–why won’t you
boot up
i serve
you like i serve
myself, i like your serve
serving me self-service reserved
for me
two mantises
on the wall
a darker smaller male
and a larger green female
not sure if i should
put on the barry white records
or if they even need that
or even if it’s the season
for lovin’
i’m sure the female eats
the male later
not because the sex was bad
or because the bastard
just impregnated her for life
the reason for the
post coital cannibalism
is that
he’s not into cuddling after
and he’s not big
on talking
that’s why she goes for the head
i saw death
meandering down
the sidewalk-less
asphalt street
full get up
dark robes
big scythe
aura of gloom
hanging visibly around him
like a cloud
of cheap cigar smoke
his bones clacked
i was in my car
don’t ask me how i know his bones clacked
my windows were rolled up
my stereo was blasting
but they clacked
or clicked
and i thought
who the hell is he here for?
too late
i saw a shadow dart
toward my car
heard the sickening
thump like
driving over a tennis ball
and shuddered
he’s one busy
son-of-a-bitch
if he’s picking up squirrels
let me draw you
my little french girl
i’ll cover you
with a sheet of tracing paper
–not acetate
that’s too true–
that flimsy filmy stuff
we got in math class
and art class
and geography when we traced
the states
so we can trace
the state of things
translucent as they say
letting light pass through
but not transparent
because too much light
is same thing as seeing nothing
bones are infrastructure
that appropriately wielded
sticks and stones may break
[i typed welded originally
and thought, now isn’t that interesting
bones made of metal–do they rust?
are they riveted in place?]
today is the first day of autumn
i feel i am coming down
with something, something seasonal
i wish it were pumpkin spice
but it puts me in a dour mood
drives me like a trained chauffeur
to the gates of a cemetery
with iron bars that resemble bones
or sticks
we park and wait for ghosts
open the cabinet
the scent of amber resin
instant peace
do you sleep in that skin
or do you discard it at night?
what flows in your veins
beside mercury and regret?
what offerings will you accept
once your clay bowl has shattered?
why does the mouse
return to the trap?
when my voice is silent
how do you hear me?
——
that cat has lost
her mouse to a humane trap
sulks like meat loaf
Words and Feathers 