Action at a Distance
Lost in some forgotten language of grief,
all I have is a FUCK and a DAMN...
of honest pain. Only swearing helps
words spit up,
gagging on raw emotions.
Brain surge... bolt!
Sit straight up
Dominican
in some chemical death, antipathy,
ecstatic release.
pinecone–
Then peace washes
over his body racked with aids,
the shake of death rattle
gone stiff.
A heavy toll blankets,
yet he sent a spirit owl to wake me,
a screeching barn owl
screaming banshee!
Lost is some forgotten language of grief,
I went Celtic, running naked on the moor
keening to the strawberry moon.
I howled and groaned
in agony,
strawberry rose until midday noon
float out of body, bright light!
All the deaths in my life
flash before me, memories
without compassion.
1981, my senior year of high school,
messages from my grandfather hastened
his body wracked with cancer.
From his hospital bed, somewhere in the night,
he rang our 1960’s verde
Ericofon and asked for my dad,
“Carl! Carl?”
Years later my grandmother played Ella
as she turned blue on the floor,
a heart‘s anticipation of a concert
stolen like her jewelry.
She sent it to my radio with an opal
rainbow and some white feathers.
Martina and Pete,
the smell of kents leathered
and disembodied feet
walked from under my bed.
These little things, signs or coincidences, do not help
to translate. Faithfully listen!
Lost in some forgotten language of grief,
stuck in paralysis of a recurring dream,
the steps collapse and surge in waves
barrelling wakes across the universe.
palliative– sudden– violent–
terror comes out as Fucks, as Damns...
As good as swearing is at expressing deep emotion,
words go mute. I fall on my knees
crowing inarticulate sounds.
Grief takes physical form.
The change of life flashes over me.
Lost in some forgotten language of grief,
a shot to the heart
when a loved one dies violently,
a grieving wail spills babel
swallowing every syllable;
head banging drums on the hardwood floor,
diving into the wreck, drowning on land.
Carved in marble, etched in granite,
each born under their own moon
written in asemic love on my heart.
I felt his pain the minute it happened,
I knew murder in the afternoon!
moths– butterflies– birds–
appeared to guide me in his after.
Spirit owls everywhere, drenched and slathered
cupid ceilings, construction walls,
some with golden eyes, some totally white
with a gentle hoot that shattered
silence to calm me
electric action at a distance, his armani!
deathblow through birth marked back,
sprinkled past life, as if his body knew.
His constellation was prepared to shatter.
stars of metatron fractals rang and rang my bell.
PHILOTIMO! Death tries to communicate.
Blue eyed indican,
till peace electric, action at a distance
soothes the observer.
Lost in some forgotten language of grief, pinecone–
