Call of Skulls
I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. I also walk through
Pilgrim Cemetery, at night, the place where
my father’s tomb is, the place where
his father’s tomb is. My grandfather was
a World War II Veteran, buried with
the soldiers. Someone sold a
plot with the soldiers and my father
was able to be by his father. The junior
high school was adjacent. I was a runner
and a fighter, always training. I liked to
run at night… The feeling of flying, feet –
not to touch the Earth. Running
through the graveyard, into darkness, feet
somehow finding their footing, I would
hurl myself into the unknown, compelled
by an incinerating soul, which made of all
things: Fuel. I honored my grandfather, who
I never knew, who passed the year I was
born, who I peed on – Who laughed when
I peed on them.
O The sight of my father’s grave, through
crystalline tears, the day I got out
of prison.
I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. In strange synchronicities
life unfolds, the pieces coming together. Like
finding random articles, online. There is a
young lady buried at Pilgrim who may have
been a victim of Ted Bundy. Her murder is
unsolved. She was going to University in
North Carolina, in the school library, when
they found her, a single stab wound, dead –
not sleeping. After learning this, I could
feel her presence, in darkness, which makes
Celtic knots around ancient trees.
I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. I look down, unto my flesh,
thinking of the rot, which shall ensue, realizing
how much I like my… Self. How beautiful
I am – How beautiful we all are. Such a
tragedy, it seems, on certain levels. The other
day I wrote a poem about rotting eye balls,
thinking of the greying of the eyes, a miasma
setting in – Over the clarity of the sun’s rays.
I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. The numbers catch the eye: 46.
A friend from my youth. Louis. He was in
the athletic club with me, which my father founded.
The information was limited. They mentioned
he struggled with bi polar, such things often being
a veiled explanation. Like… DIED. Suddenly
and peacefully in their bed. My mind drifted
to van loads of us, driving around the country
to put on boxing gloves and throw hands with
other youths from a diversity of locales. One of
my favorites was the trip to Iowa, during the
time of the great floods, sandbags stacked ten
feet, everywhere that met the eye. The damn and
the Capital Building. We climbed up these tiny
stairs – To the dome ceiling. I fought a hard
hitting slugger and outboxed and out slugged
him.
Reading the obituaries lately…
Getting closer and closer.
Louis was buried at Pilgrim Cemetery. Landing
place of pilgrims…
Pilgrims of the sometimes screaming abyss of this
***
I think about all they mighta done…
All they mighta been
At the helm
of
this realm. Darkness as whirlwind
In the darkness or light of the afterlife
dark box or white light
evolution
into
revolution of form
from
whirlwind
to
storm – To stillness. Yet and still
How we think
we
thought and
felt
we feel. All of it righteous
&
Real. From complexes
of complexity
to an
infinity
of minutiae. Minutes to
Hours. Hour to
Years. This is your life: Forever.
Sayeth the mirrors. Broken
Into fragments
of
Fall
Wether family big
or small
we all must
DIE
alone. That is all. Or is it
You make
the
Call.
***
Cipher
Poems
***
