Wednesday, November 25, 2015


(weird toys to a quiet spot)
I am battered and dry and made sorry too,
my eyes have stopped working. All I see
are these dreams of you :  the field has 
become a contentious nightmare, with 
people spilling everywhere, and a dog
who's come alive. The nightmare spell,
the coffee smell, all those things are now
re-ignited. I look for a pad to write down 
my vanguished notes. I have read my
'manchild in the promised land' sensation
should be passing, yet it here remains.
Walking through this Samptown Cemetery,
I see five hundred graves : the old black slaves
are dead, in their section, and the myriad Jewish
graves as well  - just rolling and rolling over
these hills. The newer deaths  -  you can tell
by the ribbons and flowers, photos and toys  -  
they're acted upon  as a childish celebration.
People leaving dolls, and bottles of beer and
toy cars. Just more things I do not understand.
By the caretakers shed, they've left on the ground
what must be two miles of green hose. Just lines of
green plastic, coiled and in disarray  -  all mixed. Like
all the graves around then, the hoses too seem fixed 
and waiting, in a silence befitting nothing but
those people who keep bringing 
weird toys to a quiet spot.

No comments: