Friday, May 26, 2017


 A Poor Boy’s Necropolis

I am telling my bones
To be patient
Don’t break
Not yet
Put the noose down
Use it as a jump rope
If necessary
Dice it into a dozen
Bushy eyebrows and
Short moustaches
Make a decoupage
Charlie Chaplin portrait
Pin it to the
Bedroom wall
And wait the war out

Next I am coaxing my bones 
Like a snake charmer
Until they turn fluid and liquid
Becoming a series of lava lamps
That glow under skin
Electric and ethereal
My heart shielded
By so much color
Distracted by all that beauty
A dull toad
Barely beating

Next I am telling my bones
Bedtime stories and fables
While trying to sound
Convincing and authoritative
So they know
I mean business
Like Yahweh in
The Old Testament
When he wiped out
Whole countries
Using genocide and infanticide 
When He asked a father
To take his own son’s life
Without apology

Next I’m becoming a young
Orthopedist skilled at the craft
Tucking my bones
Into soft scarves
Swaddling the ones
That still have flesh
Clinging to them
I dig a shallow grave
Nothing elaborate
Where my bones and I
Lay down together
Tricking ourselves
Into believing the dirt
Showering us overhead
Is an irregular water feature
Spewing pebbles and soil
Instead of clear sprays

Last I tell my bones
The biggest lies I can think of
And when I run out of lies
I tell them two short ones
That they are safe
That we both are
I repeat these over and over
I tell them anything
To distract us
From what’s coming next


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