Tag Archives: death

Suffer The Hummingbirds

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Suffer The Hummingbirds

Death be not kind
but there can be kindness in Death.
A daily Eucharist for an ailing Catholic
and a recovering Protestant
(Almost grounds enough for a conversion.
Almost.)
But Cancer don’t check religious backgrounds
and that mass in your belly don’t care about five o’ clock Mass.
Is Lourdes open this time of year, I wonder?
Categorical miracles are, naturally, absurd
but an individual one?
In this case, I would take it
and I wouldn’t even bat an atheistic eye at it.
Who’s the sick and who’s the comforter here?
Sometimes it’s difficult to tell, Grandma.
More often than not I feel as if I’m
one disjointed thought away
from a straight jacket fitting
and you’re holding both of us together
with softly sanctimonious composure.
But you do grow weary sometimes
and swear you’ll pray to die soon
and I look at you with deadpan eyes
and say,
“Grandma, I tried that for decades and it didn’t work
but then again I’m not as devout as you.
Although you’re too good of a Catholic to phone in an
honest-to-purgatory suicide request.”
And we both laugh and fill your hummingbird feeder
because they need tending to just as much as we do. Read the rest of this entry

The Aesthete’s Lament

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The Aesthete’s Lament

He sees a pair of sweatpants and pants and sweats.
Has panic attacks over unpressed khaki slacks.
Grimaces over Christmas sweaters and jackets with letters, man.
He can’t spot a sports jersey without feeling queasy.
Someone’s got Crocs on and it’s making him uneasy.

He finds function over fashion a dysfunctional passion.
He’s all ascots and porkpie hats,
smoking jackets and backpocket handkerchiefs.
A dapper child of Oscar Wilde
getting sick at the wardrobes
from the Wal Mart aisle.

He saunters down the street,
glances sideways at a department store display
of perilous apparel and garments gone
astray,
and starts bleeding from his eyes,
leaks crimson on his finest peacoat,
collapses on the pavement,
and chokes a sob from his throat:
AESTHETIC IS DEAD.

Composed 2012. Gratitude to Michael Lohrman for the title. Read the rest of this entry

Clowns

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Clowns

I am a grown man and I collect clowns. Statues, dolls, paintings, photographs, knick-knacks, flower vases, ashtrays, coffee mugs, music boxes, picture frames: anything having to do with clowns, I dig. Now, I am fully aware that this is not typical behavior for a somebody my age, and if I had one clown item for every time a friend, family member, or girlfriend has voiced this sentiment, well, I’d probably have the same amount of clown items that I do now. Which is a lot.

I keep clowns everywhere. I have so many clowns in my room that people who know me have dubbed it “The Clown Room,” a title that I probably find more endearing than it is intended to be. I even have a couple in my car: a painted statuette of a magician clown nestled in my center console and a clown on a swing that I rigged up from the rear passenger window so that it actually swings while the car is in motion. The latter is an exceptionally cute little conversation piece:

“I just love your Cadilla—Is that a clown on a swing?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“You know, where I’m going isn’t too far of a walk. You can let me out here…”

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A Self-Protesting Eulogy Penned By Shaky Guilty Survivor’s Hands (For Dan)

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A Self-Protesting Eulogy Penned By Shaky Guilty Survivor’s Hands (For Dan)

What is a eulogy?
A eulogy is a poor summation
of a life far more complicated
and diverse than
words on a page
(even the kind ones
of which you are more than deserving,
Dan).

A eulogy is a post-dated bad check
passed between shaky guilty
survivor’s hands and
Death,
that most crooked and
undiscriminating of merchants.

A eulogy is a love letter
an affidavit
a confession
(on the part of the guilty party–
the bereaved)
with postage that falls
one cent short
and will always
inevitably
eternally
return to sender.

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One-Take Demo Saturday: Sweaty Psalms

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Everybody hates their lives, they hate their lives, said oh no
I don’t wanna hate my life, wanna hate my life, said oh no

Everybody winds up dead, they wind up dead, said oh no
I don’t wanna wind up dead, wanna wind up dead, said oh no

Everybody goes to hell, they go to hell, said oh no
I don’t wanna go to hell, wanna go to hell, said oh no

A song for when the times are rough
A wrong, a million rights are not enough
A malediction for the menace
A benediction said for balance