Tuesday, November 28, 2006

The Dead and the Dying

Originally written June 21st 2008
 
 An uneventful night at the Wynnewood bar with too many toos, too many beers, too many cigarettes, too old to still be living like this.
 Well uneventful until we passed the Paoli Cemetery in a perpendicular manor.
 A field of stone that houses my ancestors, all of them perfectly spaced and planted to await there physical resurrection and the second coming.
 Where by order of the full moon, and the assistance of the exterior lights, our passing reflection was cast in all of that solemnly polished granite.
 A reflection abstracted, yet still discernible
 We were reflecting their death and literal representation of mortality, and they our life and refusal to acknowledge such a notion.
 For that very brief, strange, and beautiful moment, the living and the dead reached across that eerie threshold, and acknowledged each other with indifference. 

Monday, September 11, 2006

Plant a Tree in Me


Plant a tree in me
To feel the roots grow deep
The trunk stretching the skin
How interesting that would be


To stroll in constant shade
Observe the gentle dance of the canopy
Serenaded by song full birds
An experience I would not evade

To watch the lichens grow
Accepting the grubs that bore within
To carry this immense burden
All of this with spirits low

This is my blessing, and my curse
Were I to cut free this monolithic parasite
And be left with the sweet sad cavity
I would have the happiest wounds to nurse

Saturday, August 5, 2006

Autumn is a Sweet Death


Autumn is a sweet death, it does not possess the love and beauty of spring, nor the life and tranquility of summer, nor does it possess the graceful slumber of winter, but a sweet retiring release. It is not like one who longs for death, like one who has gone through years of illness or morning, but more like a waltz that is gingerly coming to a close.
Autumn is like a loving migrant mother singing the last lullaby to her desolate child, she knows it is the child’s last song and soon hers will follow. She contains virtuosity, and strength, while failing her spawn in all of the material needs, she can swallow back her immense despair, and muster all that remains of her soul, everything that is left, and draw together one last sonnet, to ease the only thing that matters to her , to the other side.
It is not right, but when nothing is right in this world, it suddenly becomes condonable, and in a since it suddenly becomes wonderful. To find beauty in all of this ugliness, is truly the spiritual constitution of a Saint. To find the pleasant aroma in the delicate decay of autumn, is to truly realize, we all succumb to a sweet death.