Death
You slow moving creature of strings
Vibration of eternal nothingness,
Skin that I felt.
The kind of drip which exists in
The mind.
You were a bodhisattva,
I wouldn’t know this until much later,
My only experiences with death,
Showed great confusion for the sounds
And scents,
Like Carlin once said “Why send flowers
When you’re dead? You can’t enjoy them”
Now at twenty-two
Death is an abstract thing,
Musical,
Some day I will die, and
If nothing else it will be a chance to slow
The hell down.
You focused on the breath,
I am now learning,
These sentences one long
Uninterrupted chorus,
Mingus playing,
I lie below naked paintings,
I want to believe there is a connection,
But I just can’t fear death,
Because it’s just sleep,
It’s just sleep,
It’s just rest.
But the mechanic who hacked his lungs
Making the end of his Lucky wet
With spit and phlegm, said he was dieing,
And I believed in him then,
As I do sometimes now.
God damn my logic,
Preventing me from knowing it,
The more silent I try to become,
The less I understand.
