a poem from 2:94. the poem is unsolicited, unpublished. it's also sort of a grave-yard theme around here, which starts in another day (or night).
not much going on today. a new pup in our house last week, a 12 week old black-lab-mix (call it a mutt). slowly learning the daily stuff like house-training and all that jazz. a bit tiring on us elders.
I TELLS YOU, I BEEN VISITED
i tells you, i been visited by zombies, that tell no truths.
the gossip of their lies is merely beautiful rhetoric. i is a dying cow
with no religion. priests come with incense eyes
to sing horrid latin cantos.
i yawns in the face of the living. cold visions of stars. the lisp
of the wind. ha! i was not a bleeding adrienne rich
with the whole dying world at my breast, feeling compassion. i was
dirt under skies of rain, mud - cursed & pissed upon.
no jesus in my veins - just diseases i never learns to pronounce
but lives with.
i tells you, the god of death is about as perfect as they come.
zombies take my soul, scribbles cryptic codes, distributes it
among their own. shakes their heads mostly.
O, the message is not worth saving.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
