Dealing with the Great
Like revelers in some Edgar Alan Poe story,
we go to work, attend weddings, write poems
as if the while thing is not absurd,
we may have grandfathers who died in front
of our own eyes, or mothers who died with
no reason or rationale, or fathers who died in agony,
but we act as if none of that is real,
drink like it doesn't exist, attend churches
like everyone there will live forever, or better yet,
meet in heaven somehow, when instead,
each of us will die lonely and unexpected absurd deaths
massive heart attacks, nursing homes predicting our
death in 24 hours, dying in a car crash after falling
after a tour of duty in Iraq, dying in front of your
and grandson, getting hit by a car, dying of AIDS in
because you stop taking half of your pills needed to
keep you alive,
and we go on, ignoring funerals, wishing people the
nodding our heads when we hear people around us talking
or family dying, "I'm sorry, we say," when we really
what to say, after all, our friends and family are
alive and well,
what can we say?
If we live long enough, we get to know
the obituary page quite well, we notice less and less,
our friends around,
we keep going to churches, nodding our heads, turning
on the TV,
and like Rip Van Winkle, sleep through our lives until
Death awakens us
one day or night, her tremendous giant white or black
wings rising up
above our heads, and that white, alabaster face with
red eyes, asks
us, "How are you doing, okay? How do you feel? Are you ready to go?"
And we fully cooperate, there's no denying Her will,
and as we turn back,
looking back at this world, we wonder, "Was it all
Did I dream myself awake?" Perhaps you did. Perhaps we all do,
until one day, we awaken.
(Revised by Jean, Ron, and Howard)
of the waxen moon
stare back at me
in your voice:
what leopards lay beside you?
What third eye
glistens in your voice?
What owls curl beside your bed?
The Three of Pentacles opens your Reading
and the Three of Wands crosses you. ..
The Page of Wands is your goal
Who is he?
Is it Oscar Wilde
Is it the Angel?
"I have dreams of a rose,
and falling down
flight of steps. . ."
In the labyrinth
we have eyes
that surrounds us
and we have taken part
in all this
but nothing will satisfy this
is the door to Plato's cave
where Alice lies buried. . .
All my life I have wanted to go there
but I was afraid
afraid. . .
You sit next to me
a white table
and we sit, smiling, smiling,
and "yet, . . yet. . ."
you strip this flesh from my skin
a set of clothes I have worn at least twice. . .
we sit, my eye trailing the ceiling
and you, wet, glistening, and I ask myself,
"Does anything last?
Will this last?"
"Nothing is permanent, nothing IS
All light melts inside this ocean
all light melts inside my mouth:
I want it
I want all of it
and I want you
I want you
I want you."