no one was there, no one was here

a shadow moved across my eye or mind, I don't know which,

could have been my father's shade; my mother, the bitch,

put it out of the house and now it follows me, I think,

to find a home somewhere without the stink

of death around it, but that can't be,

can it? no, now there's only me.

but, then again, where is this me?

death marks existence, but can it be

two certificates confirm you were here? Think

of birth and death, with nothing left except your sink

full of ideas, thoughts, profanities, that scratched your itch,

and you hurled at passersby who don't remember: that's a bitch.

living in propagandistan

riding a spiral, out of control, descending

                   in tighter and tighter circles, never ascending,

                                                              innocence ended.

from the book graveyard, a lone star reflects

                   in dying eyes caught on grainy black and white:

                                                                    the king is dead.

the odor of blood in streets, cities, and jungles mixes with

                   the sweet smell of magnolias and orange blossoms:

                                                            princes don't die in bed.

conscription ends as the actor's morning trickles down

                    to raise some boats while most sink into misery...

                                                                    truth transcended:

work walks from north, south and east across borders, carrying

                    productive futures away, leaving promises of global 
                    villages:

                                                                         burgers flipped.

mercenaries man virtual war machines grinding stone huts 
                    to dust; poppy fields wave in red, white, and blue, 

                    propagating the dreams

                                                             living in propagandistan.

chinito and african take the dice from old white men

                    and roll to see who divides, and eats, american pie:

                                                                   the party's over, man.

Speak to us of death

May we ask the poets to speak of death,

as clearly as Francesco Petrarca

once spoke to us "In Morte Laura,"

while we lie, waiting, to draw final breath.

Skillfully using his words to wreathe-

"una bel morir tutta una vita onora,"

(translated beautifully by Anna)

- his life's love in her funereal sheathe:

"A beautiful death gives credit to one's whole life,"

Anna's coda to serve all in death's grip -

unless surpassed by this blast from the past:

San Francisco graffiti artist's strife,

circa '68: "death is the greatest trip

of all,  that's why they save it 'til last."

in deference to Robinson Jeffers's “vision of the self-hanged god”

whither one god,

from many gods,

came the god of time

hanging, chained, from the world's tree...

whose disciples preach

living in the moment:

           now

not then, not when

           now...

to stop time,

make it stand still,

and last forever:

            immortality.

                           tick...tick...tick...