Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I Died

with exagerated hands
faceless intentions
borrowed time
address obscure
but members
in the know
make the gang sign
this way
we don't burn alone
collector of souls
has fangs for pockets
dig a code name into them
and hear your private moans

etched on walls
that mimic the prisons
we create
in and around us
act as faithful addictions
a shutting down of sorts
is necessary
if you want the walls to be still

but not getting
to the core of the matter
the original dis-ease
before we learned
what a dark,
high-rise alleyway
looked like
what an underbelly
feels like
when you cut into it
see your twisted intestines
how they dangle
promises of spiritual ecstacy
and then implode

Shadows, he said
loud yet voiceless
grabbing, maybe
but never sticking
tho secret handshakes
kept him on the list to nowhere
yet somewhere
between the tangible
and the forgotten
before the early morning rise
and the burdening void
he remembered his name
until he let the fangs
turn it into some unrecognizable

night comes around
and again the hands
and faceless intentions
until the surrender
when his god took his twisted
back inside in
from the one
who didn't expect
he'd find his way

I asked him how
he got to be
how he went from over there
to there
to here
and here
he turned away from his thoughts
to look directly in his mirror
and said,
I died.

From my next book of poems, Throw.

1 comment:

IJA said...

Love love love this poem. When is your book coming out? And is there a way to subscribe to or follow your blog? I love the themes and issues you address....from a fellow blogger, at