Eventually Everything Blossoms

Eventually everything blossoms.

It is efficient to assure Mother Nature,
the ultimate performer,
that even the hornet can learn
not to sting himself.

Eventually everything breaks free of the petals.

Invisible jarring of joy
can't contain itself
and must gallop across the face
as a smile.

Eventually everything that complains must laugh.

The old woman kvetching at the edge of the monger's counter
catches her last breath and exhales in a sudden gaffaw.
Try as she might, even her hand can't stop the world
from flying free in uncontrollable delight
like bells on the edge of the wind.

Burnishing the Death

This infection,this rush of cells
toward the damage and invasion of the body,
does me no good.

The suspension of faith in healing
from a distance, like a mother calling from home,
impatient for details flush with rosy predictions
will never work.

This maneuver is a reflection of how bad
the disposal of flesh can be,
rotting and septic cannot be made new
by burnishing the death
with words that have no meaning.

I am fading
into spirit
with no attachment
to the death
that lingers
around these weary bones.

On the Trail to Nowhere

Strum that old sad song.

You know it so well.

The one that barters
with the smoking barrel.

Hum that lonesome tune.

You know it so very well.

The pigment of your skin
is no longer pink
and you have given up
on ever finding sunrise again.

Pick up the howling at the moon.

You know that exact pitch.

The cold blue light
suits you from the shadows
like a trapped animal
waiting for the pack to arrive.

Detecting Love

Suspect the anonymous love letters
that sashay into your mailbox at midnight.

It is elementary, my dear,
to remember that simple affection
burns the skin,
will brand you, flesh smoking
with a powerful show of force

like extradition
after conviction
and the discovery of betrayal
at the scene of another
bloody crime.

Closing the Shop

It is time to close the shop
where the undertow of pleasure
abruptly disappears into darkness
and what some women call the end.

The signs are simple.
The spine curls forward.
Hands pose on the lap. Feet cross
daintily at the ankles.

Wrinkles
and worried looks are all part of
the way the flock of old birds gather
waiting uninformed for death.

Release

In the aftermath of all this grief
I have begun to drape myself in inquiry.

This black mourning for the signature
that identified my words with beauty
is the crosshatching I have needed to escape
the obtuse and unfeeling magnets of light.

If I cry again
maybe this time I will release the poison
like a waterway after the thawing snows.

In the aftermath of all this grief
I will ask the hardest questions
so that I might understand
what I've always missed before.

Justification

When it is time to justify everything
I know you will be grasping at every word.

You are not the braggart
or the man with too much ego.
You are not the undernourished soul
who needs to be rescued.
You are not the crazy
who forgets his manners and swears
this is the end.

You are different than anyone
I have ever known.

When it comes to justifying joy,
come into to kitchen.

Sit down.

It is time to talk.