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