The Plaint of the Men Who Have Not Yet DiedI awoke to find
some dog had died
and the hide was all
he'd left behind.
As I beheld
with baffled fright
the beast was felled
by dead of night,
for want of friends
or lack of kin
he met his end
so shed his skin
with none to leave,
no soul to sting,
no master grieved
or dirge to sing
And how to act,
I asked the morn',
by death dispatched
and life forlorn,
when the grim has left
the dead are saved,
and I, bereft,
must dig this grave?
In life we toil
for those who live;
and break the soil
with prayers to give
for those who die,
and, creeping far,
come to lie
within our yard.
the body sheer
the Earth laid bare
the finches croaked
the crickets crooned,
the swallows choked
the daises bloomed;
and by light of day
I built the cross
took my spade
and tilled the moss.
And with my knife,
I etched in stone
a mark of a life
I had not known.:
"Here Lies Dog!
I knew Thee Not;
Death and the Emerald CityThe Grim arrives just a moment too soon
at the corner of 4th and Pine.
Never a fan of wasted chances,
he decides to nurse a soy latte at the shop across the street
while he waits for the dying to commence.
She doesn't know she's falling and
by the time she's got that figured out,
she doesn't know
These intrepid wanderings and shortfalls.
At least the city makes it fun, he sighs;
ingenuity at its worst
and denial at its best.
her memories are smeared across the concrete
by the doors of the Westlake Station,
a mess of inverted aluminum and rubber tubing
OccupyThe young men speak of revolution
in the cramped and clamored quarters of some
crowded coffee shop;
whispered treatises in back-rooms filled with steam
and coffee beans.
Their life a whir of would-be's, could-be's
discontent and unkempt rage.
Cry, cry, cry
soldiers of fortune.
Who among you has the right to revolution?
Whispers of what
You'll holler, writhe and
crawl out in the night
rolling like a mortar shell toward some late-night rebel rally.
It could be 1998 or 1642
New York or Baton Rouge
Brazil or Byzantine
the names all change but in the night
the people look the same:
angry young men with hardened faces
shaking fisted hands up to the sky.
The mad young men whisper, "revolution,"
and somewhere in the hollows of the city
in flickered lamplight, empty places
the old men bow their heads and fold their hands
and give thanks for love and life.
Coffee Beans and ClosetsShe is waiting beneath the lamplight at 1st and Seneca,
purple paisley rainboots
and a scarf made out of silk;
and here we meet;
and there is nothing much to say about our meeting
but that we meet, once
(at the bend of 1st and Seneca)
and that she is headed one way
and that I have come another
Dark skin and darker eyes;
she speaks of a life lived by sun-bleached valleys
in Rajasthan or Istanbul
or in the dunes of the desert
And it's not a case of dancing
down some dappled city street, this movement
in the early morning light
nor this chorus like a song of jubilation
but see the way she moves with the rhythm of the rainfall
in a flash of black and burgundy.
And we're forty blocks and fifteen days
we're rain and fog and the roar of traffic
pacing in the shadows of the West Seattle bridge;
I ramble like a poet
and she responds with vagaries;
for forty blocks
in fifteen days;
the only time in all m
MeatRuddy tongue, the fickle thing,
hacks the words apart and tacks them back together;
this is a language of flesh.
Pieces joined askew
with a length of twine.
(it's made of meat, they're made of meat)
Like the half-jarred rhythm rolling out with
places to go
things to be.
(meat noises, made out of meat)
All of it was words and none of it was language.
(it's just air and words and air and meat)
Not quite animal are you listening? this isn't like
like romance or like nature
sentiment or reason
body or soul none of it like brushstrokes,
black and white,
the artistic whine of a tortured soul
laid to bare
none of it
Verbs that cu