#1
C.E.S. Friday 9/14/2008

Graveyards 9: Pine Grove, Unknown Location
Only the sleepwalkers get out alive
nobody dares wake them up nobody
dreams it possible
and who could when we rub shoulders with
ghosts and only feel the wind
and then hide indoors from even that and
who could when we just want
everyone to feel what we do
and when medicated feelings
don't do it quite like remembered summers
and we whisper to our dead mothers
This is it, This is it!
during the good parts
and struggle to breathe when
we find out it's just nice at best,
but our thanks are always implied (right?)
so we can forget those responses and not feel
too bad years later in the winter
false warm of snowy pine groves
and sweat from engine heated oxygen
and the crunch of the first nameless tracks
like spruce needles in fire
shoes frozen on powerlines
in front of the only house for miles.

This is a name and a place I used to know well,
a face I can't put together anymore,
more scattered each hour but always
as hollow as ever even though that much was
just an accident, and even though
it can't be any more simple than
eyes here
nose here
mouth here
hair smelling like so
and then some color,
but why always the wrong color
why always someone else’s eyes
someone else alive?

I want to scrape away all the skid marks and fill in the rubber carved ditches, along the highway and thick with salt, and I want to let the grass grow tall
in every cemetery come spring
and bury all the headstones and all the gloom
in the face of the gloaming and whisper dead birds reanimated
in the shadows of the moon
batlike and endless as
a sleepwalker's last dream
and until we can do better,
until we can bear to drink from it,
all this swept up glass
tucked away under snow so
my daughter never knows
death as a place
we fear
with each birthday, each year,
each hour of another scripted end
one dead step after the next.
Last edited by jiminizzle at Nov 15, 2011,
#2
beautiful, jimmy.
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