dirty canvas bag

what would a dirty canvas bag of bones  a grinning skull
blueglass conductors and rusted railroad spikes say about him

after he was gone

if it wasnt known he was dead it might be said

Why did he leave his shit behind

or if it was known he was dead . . . and that uncertain  -  he was known to chide death  -  that it best not be sneaky and try and come up behind him or when he was asleep  

cowardly

hed say No you can get the hell away from me  Come back when you can face me like a man

he wasnt sneaky 

wasnt shy

his shyness gone out of him as a boy and nothing in it he considered cute or toward

he was defiant

quarrelsome

and if need be he was violently-disposed

more than willing to throw the first punch if it was inevitable

a violent boy a violent teenager a violent man who wore his scars as sharp memories

like gleaming brittle showering glass . . .  

the only way hed leave his shit behind was if he couldnt take it with him

and Death required the barest of minimum he possessed

Himself

and that was a load onto itself

his head burgeoning and tied off tight

unyielding

the shit packed in his elastic skull was fearsome

he couldnt forget or forgive it if he tried

it was a tinderbox awaiting a spark

to bark to life

vivid as a lick of flame or pyre

No  he wouldnt leave his shit behind if he could help it

that dirty canvas bag held memories and stories fast

deformed parcels of having lived

a curiously-scoured Life

afternoon,  Friday,  5  11. 11