Monday, July 14, 2014

A scribble about death

Poets in their twenties
write a lot about death
because
in your twenties
it’s just a cool thing
you’re going to do
someday
later
and when later is at your door
it will be okay
because death
is that thing you owned
a long time ago
when you made it ink
and made it yours
in so many clever ways
in so many coffee shops
under your black trench coat
through the flat lenses
of your black-framed Buddy Holly glasses
(because Buddy Holly is dead see how
it all comes around)
on napkins
in notebooks
filling the air with all its best words
the big ones
the loudly silent ones
(which totally means a thing when you’re talking about death)
the ones that would glitter if
glitter wasn’t
you know
so glittery
(darkly glittery
without all the sparkle)
wrapping yourself in
layers of its distant
oh so distant
inevitability.

Death.
Fuck yeah.
(someday)

Those same
poets in their forties
only hope
that when later is at their door
the unfinished laundry
will already be in the dryer
rather than mildewing and
smelling up the house
most of the dishes will be done
(all is too much to ask)
someone will take the dog