Graveyards 10: South Philadelphia [end]
Travel Plans
They didn’t think I paid much attention then, but when I was little in Texas my father told a young Davey that one day he must go to a cemetery in Philadelphia where grandmother’s baby cousin Jack was buried in 1918, unbaptized, and to make sure it was well kept, with the words “OUR GAURDIAN ANGEL” on the grave intact, the way he remembered it. Davey thought it was funny how he couldn’t help but picture little Jackie as a baby even though he would be much older by now. Dead children still grow up, he said, then he turned to me and asked how it would feel to be just a baby and be surrounded by billions of other people and no one moving an inch, and I could only tell him I didn’t know.
Yesterday I was Leaving
This, then, must be the landscape of hopelessness.
the sky fell grayer than the warehouses,
packing plant alleys in tin cans ripped with wind,
husks of sleepwalkers in restless hovels battered
into shadows, the color sucked by the ransom of the dead
from what little grass cowered in gravel
and glass, woven along gaps in the chain link fence,
diseases caught in a broken baseball mitt. I chewed
my nails like a cannibal
or a mother in the riverside yards along Langley, larvae
plugging the tread of my shoes, stirring the inescapable path,
the lines on the map to where I, alone, and
the stone lay flat.
The Exodus of the Heart
Far over the roof tops of the sodium scarred casings and stone washed factories,
lightning rods pierced the sky with antennae, their beacons rinsed through fog,
translating spectral rust and broadcasting to broken Radios
that what Davey didn’t understand was decay—
he didn’t realize that bodies come apart
after they die, that nobody—not him,
not dad, the pet bird,
grandma’s baby cousin
passed down to me here—
nobody would ever be surrounded by
His billions of sleeping people that could awake
at any moment to join the living,
that even the bones will vanish into something else
and no longer have anything to do with the people they were
except having once been there,
And I’m willing to spend a lifetime proving
that having been there doesn’t mean a thing.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Last edited by jiminizzle at Apr 2, 2012,
You should read the book The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. Apart from your choice of beautiful, fluid and incredibly descriptive words, it feels and talks about the same things.

Apart from the line-breaks, this was really good, and a fine ending to a fine tenology, or whatever the phrase is, of your fantastic grasp of the English language and of our sesnes.
thank you, Daniel

i will readily admit i'm no good with line breaks. the first section is justified in the real version though along with some formatting in the second section (indentations etc.) that I couldn't get here. but still. NOT my strong point. guess i should take it to practice.

funny story: my notebook fell apart as I finished the last section of this. i'm not too superstitious but it was a neat punctuation after being hesitant to write about this particular event and in this context for a while.

added the graveyard book to my amazon cart :] thanks for the recc.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me